


Dragon in the Cup

by aishitara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Domestic, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Saileen, Baker!Dean, Baking Accidents, Dean is Kinda Lonely, Domestic Fluff, Dragon!Castiel, Dragons are Just Part of the Wildlife Here, Fluff, Gabriel is Mentioned but Not Present, Interspecies Relationship(s), Like Squirrels, M/M, Magical Realism, Mating Bites, Sam is a good little brother, Seriously tooth-rotting fluff, creature!Castiel, did i mention the fluff?, like so fluffy, rated M for language mostly, unintentional mating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:42:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27526324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishitara/pseuds/aishitara
Summary: “The fuck…?” he grumbles to himself, pulling the carafe of hot coffee out of its holder with his right hand and steadying his mug on the counter with his left. He looks down into the mug and yelps, surprised to see something white andwrigglingat the bottom of his cup.“What the fuck!” he yells, spilling hot coffee all over the counter, when the wriggling shape resolves itself into something resembling a miniscule white snake.With wings.There was… there was a goddamndragonis his fuckingcoffee cup.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 172
Kudos: 433
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. The Best Part of Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [conversationalpurgatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/conversationalpurgatory/gifts).



> Woooo, what a ride it was to write this! It started out as just a silly little thing that I was writing based on a prompt my co-conspirator showed me, and then it spiraled out of control into the fic it is now. [ConversationalPurgatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/conversationalpurgatory) just kept making _really good suggestions_ and I just kept nodding along and saying, “Yes, yes, more of _that._ ” ^.^; So here we are!
> 
> I started writing this in early October and finished it after watching 15x18 (you guys, I’ve just spent this last week _screaming_ ), which was… interesting. 
> 
> I feel it’s important for me to disclaim that this story is in no way meant to suggest that I see Castiel as the Winchester’s “pet.” Cas is my most favorite, and I fully believe he is the true love of Dean’s life, a competent member of TFW (1.0 and 2.0), and a Winchester to his very core. His happiness as a fully realized person is my deepest wish for him. This was just a cracky fic that took over my brain and came out like this. ^.^;
> 
> Huge thanks to [K_A_Mindin,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_A_Mindin/pseuds/K_A_Mindin) [CallenoftheNorth,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallenoftheNorth/pseuds/CallenoftheNorth) and [celestialsilhouette](https://celestialsilhouette.tumblr.com/) for their thorough beta read of this fic – any grammatical mistakes at this point are my own or left in intentionally because I’m a punk and I do what I want. ^.^;
> 
> And of course, this story wouldn’t even _exist_ without the support, encouragement, and hard work from [ConversationalPurgatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/conversationalpurgatory), who is just a delightful human being – she tolerates both my constant barrage of story ideas and my screaming about the current season of SPN (among other things) with such grace. This story is for you, my darling. You make my writing better, and I cannot thank you enough for inspiring me to write it. <3
> 
> *****updates Thursdays*****

Dean comes home from the bakery laden down with a bag of pastries and a brooding look. Shouldering his way in through the back door, he leaves it propped open to catch the crisp October breeze while he tosses the white, grease-stained bag of baked goods onto the counter next to his coffee maker. He hangs up Baby’s keys on the empty hook closest to the sink, watching them glint in the sunlight streaming in through his kitchen window as they swing to a standstill. He shucks his green army jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair, then sinks down into it, head in his hands. 

Today had been utter shit. He had been the only assistant on hand for the early morning shift, which put Gabriel in a mood with a capital “M”, which put Dean in a mood as well. Then one of their ovens shit the bed and literally _caught fire_. It wasn’t like a single oven on the outs would put the bakery out of business, but it was on _fire,_ which of course resulted in a visit from the actual fire department, which of course meant that Gabe and Dean were tied up answering questions instead of, you know, _baking_. Which made Gabe’s capital-M mood even worse. Which of course made Dean’s mood even worse. 

And so the day had gone. 

Normally, he’d be getting home around four, but the clean-up on the burned oven was an absolute _bitch,_ and Dean couldn’t even feel grateful that the oven just needed a deep cleaning and not to be replaced entirely. 

He’s tired. He’s so fucking tired and he just wants to go to sleep. 

But, no rest for the weary, Dean gets up from the kitchen table, closes the back door, and meanders his way to the bathroom for a shower. Knowing just what he needs to lift his mood, he washes the day’s sweat and flour from his skin and pulls on clean underwear, then bundles himself up in his favorite fuzzy grey bathrobe. He returns to the kitchen to make himself a bowl of popcorn. While the kernels pop, he sets up his coffee for the morning. On his way into the living room Dean grabs one of the leftover lemon-blueberry muffins from the morning rush, then settles himself on the couch to decompress with some _Game of Thrones._

Into his third episode, Dean tosses a last handful of popcorn in his mouth as Cersei Lannister watches the Great Sept burn. His eyes drooping and his shoulders relaxed, he reaches for the remote and switches off the TV, ready for bed.

Shuffling down the hall, Dean faceplants into his memory-foam mattress with a groan. He plugs his phone in, makes sure his alarm is set, and has a moment to think about how big and empty his bed feels before the day catches up with him and he falls asleep, exhausted.

**~~~**

Dean fumbles his way into the dark kitchen and pats around blindly for the light switch. When the light comes on and hits his poor, sleep-deprived eyeballs, he rubs a hand over his eyes and through his hair and then stretches, jaw-cracking yawn splitting his face. He shuffles to the coffee maker set up next to the sink and flips it on to brew.

Ugh, _mornings._ Needing to be up this early _sucks._ As much as Dean loves his job, he recognizes the fundamental flaw in being both a baker and very decidedly _not_ a morning person.

Dean goes to the fridge and takes out the milk, then sets it beside the sugar bowl on the counter, standing sentry next to the coffee machine because he can’t be fucked to ever put it away in the pantry.

He leans his hands on the edge of the big farm sink and stares out the window over it into the darkness of his backyard. He feels a chill seeping in around the edges of the window. Inhaling, Dean enjoys the rich earthy smell of brewing coffee and wills his brain to rise at least a _tiny_ bit above shuffling-zombie status.

When the coffee machine starts coughing out the gurgling death knell of the brewing cycle, Dean eyes Baby’s keys as they glare up at him in the bright kitchen light and reaches over to where his mugs all hang on shiny metal hooks, grabbing his favorite: a blue-and-green-and-brown glazed handmade monstrosity that can actually hold enough caffeine inside to wake his sorry ass up in the morning (Sam had dragged him to one of those froofy craft markets a few years ago, and Dean had been drawn to a local potter’s stall. Something about the simple, rustic beauty of the ceramics and the lovely muted earth tones of the glazes captured his attention, and before he knew it he was laying down _thirty-five bucks_ for a mug). He thunks it down on the counter next to the coffee pot and drags the sugar bowl closer, then dumps in two heaping spoonfuls.

He pushes the sugar bowl back against the coffee maker and hears a distinctly weird sound, like the world’s tiniest sneeze and a squeak at once. Dean looks around the kitchen before resting his eyes on his sugar bowl again, drawing his hand away in slow suspicion.

“The fuck…?” he grumbles to himself, pulling the carafe of hot coffee out of its holder with his right hand and steadying his mug on the counter with his left. He looks down into the mug and yelps, surprised to see something white and _wriggling_ at the bottom of his cup.

“What the fuck!” he yells, spilling hot coffee all over the counter, when the wriggling shape resolves itself into something resembling a miniscule white snake.

With wings.

There was… there was a goddamn _dragon_ is his fucking _coffee cup._

Dean can hear his precious coffee dripping onto the kitchen floor, though he probably won’t need any now that he’s had his daily dose of adrenaline, _Jesus._

He can hear the light scrabbling of tiny claws on ceramic. The dragon sneeze-squeaks again, and Dean can see it shake its tiny head, shaking up a cloud of sugar-dust.

“Hey little dude,” he says eventually, tipping the mug up towards himself and peering inside. The dragon slithers over and over itself, almost tying its body into a tiny knot of scales and feathers. Dean watches, fascinated, as its scaled skin shimmers in the kitchen light, an iridescence that flashes blue to match the tiny, feathered wings and tip of its tail.

He’s never seen a real dragon before – they’re not as common in the States – and even though he knew they were small, he’s surprised by how _truly_ small this dragon seems to be. It’s no longer than his forearm, and about as thick around as his index finger.

The dragon’s face peers up over the rim of the mug, and it looks up at Dean through the world’s tiniest eyelashes. Dean is totally caught, stunned into silence by how his heart just stutter-stalls in his chest. 

He thinks, and he’d _die_ before he admitted it out loud, that this is actually really fucking cute.

Dean’s got no idea how the dragon found its way into the house, let alone decided to make his favorite mug a hiding place. But his number one rule (okay, maybe not _number one,_ whatever) is Wild Animals Live Outside, so he gives himself a shake and shuffles over to the door leading into the yard, mug in hand, ready to return this creature to the great outdoors.

Warm light from the kitchen spills out into the still morning, illuminating enough of the yard for Dean to navigate it without tripping over himself. Cool, damp autumn air settles against Dean’s skin as he steps out onto the grass, carefully cradling his coffee mug with both hands. He finds a spot under one of the overgrown raspberry bushes that looks like a good place to set a dragon loose (He guesses? He doesn’t know much about the critter currently interrupting his sacred morning coffee routine). Bunches of browned, shriveled berries hang heavy on the canes of the bush, and Dean reaches down to clear some fallen leaves away from the spot he’s chosen.

Gently, slowly, Dean tips the mug out as though to empty it into his hand. The little dragon clings to the bottom of the mug for a moment, its claws seeking purchase, before it catches itself and freezes in place. Dean gives the mug a small shake, trying to encourage the dragon to come out without having to stick his fingers in there.

“C’mon, little guy, I’m not gonna hurt ya,” he murmurs, coaxing. After a moment the dragon pokes its snout out from the rim of the cup. Another moment’s patient wait and Dean is rewarded with its entire body curling up in the palm of his hand. The dragon pushes its face into Dean’s palm, nuzzling against his skin with eyes closed. A smile tries to curl the corners of Dean’s mouth. He’s surprised by how warm the dragon’s body feels, how soft its scales, smooth like snake skin.

Dean crouches next to the raspberries, places the mug down in the dewy grass and cups both hands around the tiny creature he’s found. Dropping his hands level with the ground, he tries to slide out from under the dragon’s curled body. It clings to him with its tiny claws, like a kitten. It makes a strange purring chirp that is clearly a sound of distress, and Dean feels a stab of guilt when he finally manages to extricate himself and put his hands on his knees.

“There you go,” Dean says softly. The dragon stands on all four legs, its long, snake-like body still as it tilts its head to the side to regard him. Its face is scrunched in confusion and it looks mildly insulted. It chirps sadly at him again and stretches out a foreleg, almost as if to say _don’t leave me out here,_ but Dean’s croissants aren’t going to bake themselves.

Dean retrieves his mug and stands, trying to ignore the vague sense of unease that creeps in at leaving the little guy out in the cold, and marches back into the warm kitchen to brew a second pot of coffee.

Fucking _mornings._

**~~~**

“I got it, Sammy, I got it,” Dean grumbles into his phone, staggering down the hall and into his kitchen. Naturally, his Get Up And Run At Ass O’Clock baby brother had to call him on his freaking day off. Today was supposed to be his day to _sleep in,_ dammit.

But he was up now, so. Might as well get moving. 

“I’m just saying, Dean, I really– I really like Eileen, okay? We all agreed to do the meet-the-family thing, I just want to make sure you’ll _behave._ ” Dean can practically hear Sam’s bitchface over the line.

“Sam,” Dean says, flipping on his coffee maker, “it’s 6:30. _In the morning._ You really needed to call me this early to treat me like somehow our roles are reversed and _you_ raised _my_ ass?”

“It’s not like you’ve never done something stupid to chase off a girl before…!”

Dean grabs his jug of milk from the fridge and brings it over, leaning his hip against the counter when he puts it down. “C’mon, Sam. I’m not that big of a dick.” He pins the phone between his ear and his shoulder and reaches for his coffee mug, adding, “And it’s not like _you’re_ perfect, either, bitch. Don’t think I forgot about that time at the state fair.”

“Jerk! How was I supposed to know she had a twin?!”

“Whatever, man,” Dean huffs good-naturedly. “I promise I’m not gonna–” He cuts off, looking down into his mug. Nestled snugly in the bottom, clearly asleep, is the little white dragon from the morning before.

“Huh,” he says.

“‘Huh,’ what? You’re not gonna what, Dean?”

“Nevermind. I’ll see you later, okay?” Dean pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up on Sam’s spluttering, effectively distracted. He gingerly puts his mug flat on the counter and leans over it, captivated by the rise and fall of the tiny body inside as the dragon breathes evenly in slumber, feathery wings giving the occasional twitch.

“You again?” he says softly, a smile trying to creep onto his face.

Dean bites his lip, tamping the impulse down. However adorable Dean finds his morning visitor, it’s still a wild creature and therefore belongs _not in his house._ He lifts the mug and once again carries the dragon sleeping within it out to his raspberry bushes. He crouches down close to the ground, hesitates for a split second, then pokes a gentle finger inside his mug to stroke along the dragon’s tiny head. Its scales feel immeasurably soft, and as he draws a finger down the dragon’s body, its muscles contracting in the wake of his touch, he feels how much heat the beautiful creature is radiating, just as it had the previous morning.

“Hey little dude,” he murmurs, letting his finger dip down into the divot between its wings. “Or dudette, whatever. Wake up, time to go.”

The white dragon lifts its head and blinks up at Dean, clearly sleepy. Dean does smile, this time, thinking that the dragon seems to like getting up about just as much as he does. Still, wild friends are _outside_ friends. Dean tilts the mug over and watches the dragon slither out onto his palm, where it proceeds to climb around the back of his hand and latch on to his index finger with all four of its clawed feet. It curls the rest of its body around his hand and wrist, and Dean can feel the feathers of its tail brushing back and forth lazily, as though the dragon has nowhere better to be, and no intention of leaving the comfort of its new perch. He has to gently pry it away from his finger to set it down in the loam underneath the desiccated raspberries.

The dragon peers up at Dean with an affronted look. He’s fairly certain it’s wondering how Dean has _dared_ to displace it from its nesting place. He shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says, wondering why he’s apologizing to a _dragon_ at 6:45 in the morning, “but it’s my favorite coffee cup, okay?”

The dragon doesn’t answer, of course. It just looks up at Dean with its little blue eyes in its little precious face, forlorn, and waits for him to feel guilty all on his own.

He goes back inside trying not to feel like a total jerk.


	2. Of Names and Nesting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This becomes Dean’s new morning ritual.
> 
> Wake up. Zombie-shuffle to kitchen. Flip on lights. Flip on coffee. Find small dragon creature lying curled up in coffee mug. Return small dragon creature to the wild. Repeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I absolutely do plan on updating this weekly, so y'all will see chapter 3 next Thursday, November 19th, but... 
> 
> After last night's episode, I just wanted to offer everyone some more fluffy nonsense, because seriously, W.T.F.
> 
> Notes at the end of this chapter have some of my thoughts about 15x19 if you're so inclined. ::sigh:: I will tell you, it is a _rant_ , so if you'd rather skip it, I promise I won't be offended. ^_~
> 
> Art at the end of this chapter is by me.

This becomes Dean’s new morning ritual.

Wake up. Zombie-shuffle to kitchen. Flip on lights. Flip on coffee. Find small dragon creature lying curled up in coffee mug. Return small dragon creature to the wild. Repeat.

At first, Dean is baffled as to how the dragon keeps getting inside his house. At night he makes sure he’s closed all the windows. He knows there aren’t any mouse holes for it to use – he’d gone around the house in the sweltering end days of summer making sure everything was plugged up, no critters overwintering inside, thank you very much. He doesn’t think dragons can _bamf_ like Nightcrawler, but what does he know?

Dean eventually susses out that the dragon has been sneaking into the house in the afternoons when Dean comes home from the bakery. He realizes it as he battles with his keys and two overstuffed bags of groceries one day, trying to get the door unlocked without having to put anything down. Paper bags crunching as he props them up between his body and the doorjamb, he finally slides the key into the lock. As he does, he catches a white streak of movement in his peripheral vision. He looks up and sees the dragon holding tightly to the siding over the back door, frozen when it realizes it’s been caught.

They stare at each other for a long moment before Dean sighs and looks away. He’s starting to realize he knows next to nothing about dragons and that maybe some research is in order. And also, he might as well just let the poor thing stay inside, since it appears that is where it wants to be for now. Who knows, maybe it’s too cold outside for dragons this time of year? As they move further into October, the temperatures at night will continue to plummet. Dean hates to think of the dragon shivering under a leaf somewhere in the middle of the night. Plus, Dean reasons, if he just lets it stay inside, he won’t lose precious morning time getting ready to go to the bakery by taking it back out to the raspberry bush, which the dragon seems to actively dislike, anyway.

Yeah. Yeah, that’s totally the reason Dean decides it’s okay for the dragon to stay.

It has absolutely _nothing whatsoever_ to do with the fact that each time Dean wakes the small creature, it looks up at him with an intelligent gaze that Dean is weirdly intrigued by. And it’s _definitely not_ because the dragon finds a way to climb all over him and cling to whatever part of Dean it can reach, snuffling and sniffing at him, squeaking in happiness. And that he finds this _unfairly fucking adorable_.

Shit. Whatever remains of his manly reputation is going to get wrecked by a dragon that fits inside of a coffee cup.

Decision made, Dean looks back up at the dragon clinging to the side of his house and smiles ruefully. He unlocks the back door and pushes inside, making sure to leave the door open long enough for the dragon to scurry through. When it does Dean pretends he doesn’t notice it wiggling its way down to the floor, where it promptly bolts across open space for the kitchen cabinets. By the time Dean locks up, hangs his coat, and turns back to his haul of groceries, the dragon is nowhere to be seen, but Dean is fairly confident he’ll find it in his mug in the morning.

And indeed, the next morning Dean pulls his favorite mug off its hook and peers inside. The dragon is sleeping soundly within, snout tucked up under a wing. It looks so vulnerable curled up like this, and Dean feels a tugging inside his chest that he does his very best to ignore.

But, thinking that perhaps it’s time to be bold, Dean bites his lip and sticks his hand in, hooking his index finger under the dragon’s body and drawing it slowly out of the cup. The dragon wakes as it feels itself being lifted, and tries to cling with its pinprick claws for a moment to the edge of the ceramic, but Dean gives a gentle tug and the dragon lets go. With a small smile, Dean lifts the dragon so they are eye to eye, cradling the lower half of its long body in one hand.

“Good morning,” he says, and the dragon blinks grumpily at him. “Thought I’d, uh, let you stay here.” Dean coughs, and does his best to ignore how crazy he probably looks and sounds at the moment, talking to a surly dragon that can’t even answer him.

The dragon tips its head to the side and looks up at Dean. Then, as though to make sure Dean is _especially_ invested in its cuteness, the dragon opens up its tiny jaws and yawns, tongue sticking out and curling back in like a cat. It shakes its head vigorously before looking up at Dean again and giving a gentle, questioning chirp, blue eyes large in its face.

“Well, gotta actually have my coffee now, so…” Dean isn’t sure where to put the creature, but as it’s always been clingy with him he figures letting it sit on his shoulder is a good place to start. He lifts the dragon up to his left shoulder and lays the top half of its body there. Immediately he feels the jab of claws digging through the fabric of his favorite fluffy bathrobe in an effort to hold on. He waits until it feels like the dragon has a good grip before letting go of the rest of its body, the feathers of its tail soft as they slide through his fingers. It settles on his shoulder for all of a second before sliding down, face-first, into the breast pocket of Dean’s robe. After another moment of slithering over itself trying to untangle its own body, the dragon pokes its head up out of the pocket and grasps the edges. It looks all the way up at Dean and snuffs at him as though to say _get on with it, then_.

“Alright,” Dean says, smiling and rinsing out his mug before going about his coffee ritual with a tiny dragon curled up in his bathrobe pocket as though it were a perfectly normal thing for a dragon – _and a_ _person_ – to be doing. “Guess I better figure out how to take care of you, huh?” he muses. The dragon chirps and then makes a noise like a purr.

Dean chews on his lower lip as he stirs his coffee. He tilts his chin down and looks at the creature tucked up, cozy, in his bathrobe pocket. It looks back up at him, shiny blue eyes hooded, seemingly content. “Gonna have to call Sammy about this,” he tells it, taking the first glorious sip of his go-juice. “Big nerd’s probably got a dozen books about you somewhere just laying around.”

**~~~**

“It says here dragons are kinda like bowerbirds,” Sam says, his voice amused. Dean can hear him flipping through a book over the phone. “So they’re big on nesting, but like, _pretty_ nesting.”

Dean chews on the end of his pen for a minute before adding “ _needs a nest_ ” to the notes he’s keeping. True to form, when Dean had explained the situation to Sam his nerdy baby brother went into Full Research Mode and dug up everything he could find on dragons, past and present, here in the States and across the pond in Europe or whatever. Dean hadn’t been looking for the history so much as how to make sure he won’t accidentally kill the thing, but it’s all pretty fascinating stuff, if he’s being honest.

Still, what he needs is practical knowledge. People generally don’t try to keep dragons as pets, in large part because they were quite scarce (whether in actual numbers or simply because they avoided humans – usually – was unclear), and, y’know, undomesticated. So Sam hadn’t been able to dig up too much beyond the basics: what they ate (they were largely omnivorous – Dean asks Sam if he thinks ground beef will be okay and Sam says it probably can’t hurt), where they were found, generally (high up in trees, or far under the ground in deserted burrows made by other animals – nothing about coming into houses or commandeering innocent pottery), whether or not they hibernated (they did; Dean wondered if his little friend was just getting ready for winter in his coffee mug), if they could fly (kinda – they were more like flying squirrels or sugar gliders than birds in that respect), that sort of thing. But nothing so extensive as what Sam had looked up once, when they were kids, about taking care of puppies, for example.

“‘Pretty nesting,’” Dean repeats, doodling in the corner of the page. The dragon is curled up on Dean’s thigh, wound around and around itself like a piece of iridescent rope. Dean drops a hand to the tiny creature and rubs his finger between its ears. He hears the soft purring sound this action often elicits and smiles down at the little white bundle on his leg, feeling its warmth bleeding through the denim of his jeans and into his skin. The dragon pushes its head up into Dean’s palm, a practical demand for more petting.

“You gonna need a fancy nest, little guy?” he murmurs fondly, making Sam choke with laughter.

“What?” Dean demands, face going hot.

“Nothing, nothing,” Sam says through his chuckling, “I just never thought I’d hear you baby-talk _anything_. Can’t wait to meet the reptile that finally captured your heart.”

“Hey!” Dean yelps, insulted on the dragon’s behalf. “Dragons aren’t reptiles! They’re… they’re just _dragons!_ ”

“This, this is what I mean!” Sam says, still laughing.

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean grumbles. He turns his hand palm up next to the dragon and it looks up at him before climbing onto his hand. Dean lifts it up onto the table and lets it climb down, watching it wander curiously across the smooth wooden surface. It stops to sniff at his pen and notepad, peering down at Dean’s careful notes as though it can understand what he’s written and approves.

“It’s cute, is all,” Sam says, laughter finally subsided but still lurking in his voice.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, “laugh it up, Chuckles.” He rolls his eyes. “And here I’ve been _so good_ about this thing with you and Eileen.”

“That’s–” Dean can almost hear Sam shifting gears in his head. “Huh. That’s kinda true, actually,” he says finally, surprise coloring his voice.  
  
“Yeah, Sammy. It is.” Dean is glad they’re on the phone and not face-to-face for this. “I get it, man. You really like her. Can’t blame you. She’s great.”

“She really is,” Sam agrees dreamily. Dean has to literally bite his own tongue to keep himself from saying something… inappropriate. He does get it. He sees the way Sam lights up like a fucking Christmas tree any time someone even _mentions_ Eileen to him. Dean’s a lot of things, but he’s not an idiot, and he’s not an asshole. He knows when to back off the teasing.  
  
There’s quiet over the line. Dean knows that Sam knows that Dean’s really on his best behavior here.

“Hey,” Sam says suddenly, “do you know if it’s male or female?”

“Uh, no?” Dean answers, frowning. “How the fuck would I know that, Sam?”

Dean can hear more page-flipping on the other end of the line. “It, uh, it says here that generally, male dragons will have a colored stripe on the underside of their belly,” Sam says eventually, “and that females tend to be less colorful and even smaller than the males.”

“Huh. Well, since I don’t have another one to compare, size difference ain’t gonna help me,” Dean says with a roll of his eyes. He pulls his phone away from his ear to check the time. “Listen, I gotta go. Thanks, man.”

Dean can hear the smile in Sam’s voice when he says, “Of course, Dean. And, seriously, I’m happy for you. I haven’t heard you sound so excited about something in a long time.”

Dean smiles, too, as he strokes his finger down the dragon’s spine, tip to tail, and watches it arch up into the touch like a cat. “Yeah,” he says, soft and embarrassed, “maybe it’s stupid, but. I _like_ him. It. Whatever.” He can feel his ears burning and Dean has never been so glad that Sam moved out last year.

“Any idea what you’re going to call it?” Sam asks. “I mean you can’t just keep calling it ‘hey, you,’ right?”

Dean chews on his lip, thoughtful. “Dunno yet,” he finally replies. “But you’re right. I’ll think of something.” He looks at the dragon, currently batting his pen back and forth in a clear effort to slay the plastic thing. Its face is scrunched in fierce concentration as though its victory over the pen is life-or-death stakes. A tiny growl emanates from its chest. “Gotta be badass, though. You should see his little face, man. He gets so _serious_.”

He can hear Sam holding back more laughter as he says, “Well, good luck with that. And the _nesting_.” His voice teasing, Sam hangs up.

Dean shoves his phone back into his pocket, muttering “bitch” under his breath. He huffs out a sigh before reaching for his pen. He picks it up and the dragon gives a little hop, balancing on its hind legs and flaring its wings out to continue its vicious attack on Dean’s innocent writing utensil. Dean notices a flash of darker blue on the dragon’s underside. Curious, he teases the dragon with the pen for a minute, watching it rear up and swat playfully, before scooping the creature up and turning it carefully onto its back.

Thumbs stroking gently over its belly, Dean sees a long, thin, azure stripe starting between the dragon’s forelegs and stretching all the way down to disappear into the feathery tip of its tail. How he hadn’t noticed the stripe before now escapes him, but it’s there, plain as day. His little dragon is definitely a boy dragon. A boy dragon that is currently limp as a cooked noodle in Dean’s hands, purring softly at having its belly stroked, eyes closed in a picture-perfect representation of total tranquility. When Dean follows the line of the stripe with his finger, end-to-end, the dragon stirs, looking up at him with hooded eyes, its little body trembling.

“Well,” he says at last, standing and turning the dragon back over, mindful of its blissful lethargy as he drapes it on his shoulder, “let’s see about getting you all set up, huh?” The purring continues, volume increasing, as the dragon cuddles up close to his neck and snuffs up and down the sensitive edge of Dean’s ear. He feels a tiny warm wetness and realizes the dragon’s licked him – is still licking, actually, in what feels like teeny kisses.

Dean lets out a laugh and ignores the weird swooping feeling in his belly as he starts wandering through the house, taking stock of what he might use to tempt the dragon away from his favorite mug. He wonders about what name would be appropriate for this small new friend of his. As he makes his way through the living room, Dean’s eyes land on a framed photo of him and Sam with their mom, one of the rare ones from before she got sick.

In it, she crushes Sam and Dean to her, an expression of pure joy on her face as her boys gleefully laugh at being manhandled by their mother. Dean reaches for the frame and runs a finger down the side, a sad smile on his lips. The dragon crawls down from his perch on Dean’s shoulder to walk out along his forearm, tail wrapped around the crease of Dean’s elbow for balance. The dragon peers at the photo, seeming to realize that it’s important to Dean, then looks back at his face, head tilted to the side. The dragon chirps up at him, sounding almost sad. Like he knows exactly what happened, knows all of Dean’s grief and emptiness and regret without having to be told. It presses its nose against the back of Dean’s hand and then gives it a soft, slow lick.

“That’s my mom,” Dean tells the dragon. “She’s been gone a while, now.” He shrugs and replaces the frame on the side table, suddenly wanting to wrap his arms around himself but resisting the impulse.

“She woulda liked you, I think,” he continues. “She was big on being kind to all creatures, big and small, you know?” If Dean had initially felt a little strange talking to a dragon just like he would talk to another person, that feeling is long since past. He tells him all about Mary Winchester as they continue through the house, searching for something Dean can try passing off as a nest, until he hears a weird gurgling noise. Looking down at the dragon, he hears it again and watches as the dragon’s tongue snakes out to lick at his own face. He looks up at Dean with nothing short of Sam-level puppy eyes as the little gurgle happens again.

Dean laughs. “Hungry?” he asks, and the dragon visibly brightens. Dean makes a detour toward the kitchen. Now that he’s thinking about it, he should probably start dinner, anyway. On the way, he picks up where his train of thought was derailed. “Mom was always so… I dunno, idealistic, maybe. When I was little,” he muses, “she used to say angels were watching over me.”

Dean shakes his head at himself as he sets the dragon on the kitchen counter. He starts pulling out all the necessary ingredients and fixings for tacos from the fridge. “Gotta tell ya, my life’s never really felt like that, though,” he says, subdued and brooding.

It’s quiet in the kitchen except for a sharp crackle as Dean peels the papery skin from an onion. He dices the onion into small pieces and his mouth twitches in a smile when the dragon comes close to sniff at the pile of pungent vegetable bits. He sneezes and backs away, shaking his head vigorously, and Dean even manages a gentle laugh.

“Hey,” Dean says, thinking about his mom, and angels, and how this little dragon had waltzed into his life, “How ’bout I call you Ezekiel? Zeke for short?” When Dean looks at the dragon’s face he can’t help but laugh harder. If he had been human, Dean is sure he’d be getting the world’s most epic stink-eye right about now. “Okay,” he says through a chuckle, “not Ezekiel. Hmm.” He scoops the onion into a little bowl and puts it aside, stuck. Gabriel or Michael is too commonplace for a creature as beautiful and fascinating as he finds this dragon to be. He tries to remember some of the more obscure angel names his mom had shared with him and Sam, but the memories are like gossamer, thin and fragile and practically invisible in the right light.

The dragon looks up at Dean with his blue eyes huge in his face, expression solemn and almost willful, like he’s trying to directly beam his thoughts into Dean’s brain. Dean chews on his lip as he starts slicing a tomato, and one of those faint gossamer memories spins itself into something solid. He looks at the dragon again and suggests, “How does– what about Castiel?”

The dragon instantly perks up, standing straighter on his tiny legs, wings flared out and head held high, making himself look much bigger. Blue eyes sparkle up at Dean in approval as he whips the tip of his tail back-and-forth and squeaks in obvious pleasure. He jumps forward and latches onto Dean’s thumb, licking at the pad in short, delicate bursts and looking up at Dean like… like he hung the damn moon, or something.

Dean laughs again. “Right,” he decides, opening up the package of ground beef and pulling a morsel out to feed to his little friend. The dragon snaps up the offered tidbit with a speed that is frankly frightening. “Castiel it is.”

**~~~**

Dean tackles the nest situation with gusto – at first. He initially tries to tempt Castiel with a shoebox, full of loose change. Cas – because _of course_ Dean had to also give him a nickname – approaches the box and examines the shiny coins curiously, sniffing at a nickel and giving it a tentative lick. The taste clearly doesn’t agree with him; he shakes his head vigorously and growls and Dean is sure if he could speak Cas would be swearing a blue streak.

The following morning, Castiel is in his mug.

Next he tries a soft cat bed he borrows from Charlie across the street. Cas climbs inside and even circles around it, rubbing his face against the sides of the bed and rolling his long body around in apparent delight. He plucks at the fabric with his claws. He squeak-chirps in the way Dean has come to understand means _happy._ He flaps his tiny wings, and Dean thinks for sure that Cas is excited about this alternative to the current nesting situation.

But no. The next morning – _mug_.

Dean even gets desperate enough to decorate a wicker basket with late-blooming _flowers_ from his goddamn _garden_ for chrissake, thinking maybe he should take Sam’s comment about bowerbirds more literally (after he even remembered it and then thought to look them up). The flowers do seem to please the fickle dragon, but even though Cas deigns to take a nap in the basket on Saturday afternoon, the next morning, he’s curled up snug and sound inside Dean’s crockery.

In the end, Dean gives up and just lets Castiel use his mug.

“Fine, you little monster,” he says with a laugh, rubbing Cas underneath his chin. “I guess this is just yours, now.” Castiel’s face is lifted to the ceiling, eyes closed in pleasure. Dean’s found over the last couple of weeks that his tiny companion likes having his chin scratched or his back pet. He loves when Dean rubs gently between his wings.

But Cas’ favorite thing to do, apparently, is climb _all over_ Dean.

The small creature springs up from his place on the counter, nosing into Dean’s sleeve and scrambling up inside it to poke his face out of the neck of Dean’s hoodie. Cas climbs down into the hood and waits there for a moment before Dean feels the sharp tug of talons in his hair, at odds with the soft puffs of air he feels against his scalp as Cas huffs his way up onto the top of Dean’s head to settle there. Cas’ tail feathers brush back and forth over the nape of Dean’s neck in a way that feels deliberate.

Dean would be lying if he said any of this bothered him. He’s kind of certain he’d let Castiel get away with anything, Cas has him so tightly wound around his little dragon claws.

Musing, Dean picks up his coffee mug. It’s not really anything special. Just colorful. And he guesses it’s kinda shiny. He doesn’t see how it would fit “fancy” criteria, but apparently Castiel thinks it’s perfect, so. Dean’ll just have to get a new favorite coffee mug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I drew the little picture of Cas in a fit of artistic abundance; I'm not much of a visual artist but I was inspired. ::shrug::
> 
> You can come find me on [tumblr](https://aishitara.tumblr.com/), though I think for the next week I'll be avoiding all my social media, I'm so beside myself. ;____;  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
>  *****SPOILERS FOR 15x19*****  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> So of course now I've slept on it, and at first I was just... numb, but now I am _furious_. They spent 12 years queerbaiting the ever-loving _shit_ out of us, only to have our _most beloved character_ "come out" (let's be real, Castiel is truly genderless), have _no one_ acknowledge that he's done so, and bury him not only permanently, but in a place where he'll be tormented for all eternity by a being that has a personal grudge against him. Fuck you, spn showrunners.
> 
> I do not trust the show at this point to give Castiel back to us and I'm still just _beside myself_ that, in his explanation of what happened in the bunker to Sam, Dean doesn't say a single goddamn thing about _why_ Cas is dead. Seriously?? You couldn't have spent a _single line_ to have Dean acknowledge, _out loud_ , that Castiel loved him?
> 
> And don't even get me started on the fact that Castiel went this _whole fucking show_ without anyone ever saying that they loved _him._
> 
> All of the stuff with Chuck and Jack was cool, but felt _so_ rushed... they had the time to build it up better, didn't they? There were a couple of filler episodes that could have been more plot heavy...! 
> 
> How much of this was planned, how much of it was covid, who knows? All I know is that after 15x18, where I felt so unbelievably high... now I just feel _betrayed_ and I feel like the showrunners did Misha so dirty and that makes me want to flip every fucking table in existence. It puts his absence in _Last Holiday_ in a different, and frankly shitty, light, and I just. Would like to spend the rest of this week under a blanket.
> 
> Anyway, I know I'm consuming as much fluff as I can take right now, so I hope this offering is a balm. ::hugs all around::


	3. Hoarding and Hot Chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean peers down at Castiel curiously. Cas is looking at the back door to the kitchen with what Dean can only interpret as open terror, a quiet whining chirp the only other indication that he’s frightened. He frowns, chewing on his lip before crouching down so he’s at eye level with Cas on the table.
> 
> “Hey,” he says, gentle, “I’m not gonna leave you outside again, okay?” Cas looks at Dean for a moment, the little dragon’s gaze weighty and serious. Dean smiles his best reassuring smile, the one he used to pull out any time Sam was wondering where Dad was, _again,_ or worrying that there might be monsters hiding in his closet. “Promise,” Dean adds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Happy Last Episode Day, everyone. We made it!
> 
> This chapter is a bit short and I suspect that we are all going to need a pick-me-up one way or another tonight, so I'll probably be posting chapter 4 this evening. After I'm done crying my eyeballs out. 
> 
> Godspeed, friends!
> 
> *****ETA*** This chapter now has some beautiful[art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27923713) by the lovely [LilBooklet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilBooklet/pseuds/LilBooklet). Please take a look!**

Castiel seamlessly becomes a part of Dean’s day. Whenever he’s home, the little dragon is always nearby if not actually ensconced somewhere on Dean’s person (he seems to favor Dean’s bathrobe pocket very highly, which Dean figures is because it’s so warm). Because it’s always felt like Cas is really listening, Dean keeps up an almost constant stream of chatter, telling Cas about Gabe and the bakery, or his brother, or his mom. Sometimes he even talks about his dad.

Some nights Dean falls asleep mid-sentence, Castiel’s body wrapped around his arm, tail feathers twitching against his elbow. Other nights, he’ll be reading and Cas will curl up on his chest, feathery wings folded against his iridescent scales, poking his nose into the crook of Dean’s elbow when he wants to be petted. Without thinking about the _why_ too hard, Dean starts keeping Castiel’s mug on his bedside table.

The little dragon is plainly thrilled by this development, circling and sniffing around the mug on the table, scampering up and into it and then immediately scurrying out and across Dean’s pillows, back and forth in wriggling joy. Cas finally settles down, curling protectively around his mug and purring, the picture of pure creature comfort. When Dean reaches out his hand to offer petting, Castiel meets him halfway, pushing his head up into Dean’s palm and rubbing against him, pleased.

[Most mornings, Dean is awake and showered before Cas even pokes his nose up over the edge of his mug-nest, his eyes narrowed in a grumpy pout.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27923713) Sometimes, though, Dean wakes with Castiel snuggled up against his neck, or on the rare occasion he gets to sleep in, to Castiel’s nose pushed insistently up against his own. One time he even wakes up to catch Cas in the act, body coiled tight and creeping up along Dean’s chest, neck outstretched. Dean squints at Cas and Cas lets out a surprised squeak, jumping back and throwing up one wing like a shield before peering around the edge of it, huffing in embarrassment.  
  
These moments become more and more frequent as Castiel grows. Dean notices a little pudge on Cas’ belly one day, and the next it seems impossible that Cas ever fit inside a coffee mug, he’s gotten so long. Cas’ mug remains on Dean’s nightstand, but as days pass without him returning to it except in passing, Dean starts to wonder if he can surreptitiously reclaim his drinking vessel.

But then, one morning when Dean is rushing out the door to work, throwing on his favorite green jacket, he notices a button on the cuff is missing. Thinking little of it, he stomps out into the chilly morning and goes about his day. That night, he sees a small olive-green button sitting next to Castiel’s mug.

“What’s this?” Dean asks, pinching it between his fingers to get a good look. Yep. Definitely from his coat. He shows the button to Cas and wiggles it in his direction. “Did you steal my button, Cas?”

In response, Castiel wanders close to Dean’s hand and stands on his hind legs, forelegs reaching out so Cas can grasp Dean’s finger in his tiny claws. He sticks his head forward and snatches the button out of Dean’s grasp with his teeth. Scurry-hopping backward, he turns and brings the button back to his mug and very deliberately drops it inside, then looks over his shoulder at Dean, chirping up at him indignantly.

“Oh, so that’s yours now, too, huh?” Dean laughs. Castiel just puts his nose higher in the air and manages to look haughty. So much for taking his mug back.

Over time, a small collection of trinkets appears tucked into the bottom of Castiel’s mug, all of them the detritus of Dean’s solitary life: A bottle cap from Dean’s favorite beer. An exceptionally shiny penny that Dean had kept in his jacket pocket, the face worn smooth from many years of rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. The zipper-pull from Dean’s leather jacket, which he’d thought was lost (long before Cas showed up, and anyway, leaving a leather jacket unzipped looks way cooler). A braided leather bracelet that he hadn’t worn since he’d dated Lisa. One of mom’s old baking spoons, standing straight up out of the mug – one that was basically useless since it’s meant to measure a “smidgen,” and everyone knows baking by weight is more accurate, anyway. Bits of green glass, smooth and worn, collected once upon a time along the banks of a river where Sam and Dean spent a summer goofing off and catching crayfish with their bare hands. A twist of dental floss ( _Eew_ , Dean thinks, but doesn’t touch any of Cas’ growing hoard).

Dean doesn’t say anything about this collection of treasures. They are as inexplicable to him as Castiel’s preference for his very plain, very functional coffee mug, but they are clearly just as important to the little creature. Dean’s touched, actually, that Cas seems to want to completely surround himself with… well, with _Dean_. He can’t remember anyone besides family ever taking such an interest in him, in being with him, and clearly wanting to _know_ him. Weird that a dragon – really, _any_ animal, but a _dragon_? – is the one creature on the earth he seems to have a close connection with, but Dean will take it.

He’s been alone long enough, and whether or not it makes him a total weirdo, Cas makes Dean feel like he’s not quite so alone any more.

**~~~**

Coming into the kitchen, Dean flips on the lights and reaches up a hand to Castiel, wrapped around his neck like a wriggling iridescent necklace. He slides a finger under Cas’ body and tugs gently, and Cas twists to wrap himself around Dean’s hand. Silently, Dean drops Cas off in his usual spot on the counter next to his hanging mug collection, Baby’s keys, and yesterday’s leftover pastries, then switches on the coffee maker. After it starts to drip, he pulls out the eggs and some other things to make them breakfast while Cas noses open the pastry bag and emerges a moment later with crumbs all over his face.

When Castiel spots the package of bacon he lights up and he lets out a hungry squeak. Dean looks down at the dragon and smiles at him. “Yeah, I know buddy,” he says, giving Castiel a scratch between the wings before washing his hands at the sink. “You love your bacon just as much as I do, don’tcha.” Cas lets out an affirmative chirp and hops around on his tiny feet. 

Dean unlocks his phone and pulls up his music, setting the phone on the deep windowsill over the sink. Humming along to _Hazy Shade of Winter_ , he sways his hips a little as he fries up the bacon. He catches Castiel moving from the corner of his eye, the dragon bobbing up and down with Dean as he dances in his kitchen. A grin spreads across Dean’s face.

He sneaks Cas a half a slice of bacon while the rest cools on a plate on the table, then starts chopping up some scallions for an omelette as Cas munches through his prize. “What do you think,” Dean says, dumping the scallions into a bowl with some eggs and whisking them up, “should we go for a walk after breakfast?”

He says this out loud as if he’s said it a hundred times before, as if Cas knows what he even means. The dragon pauses and licks delicately at his mouth, looking up at Dean with the crests above his eyes raised. Dean shrugs. “I dunno, it looks nice out today,” he mumbles, feeling suddenly awkward, and then feeling awkward for feeling awkward because, really? It wasn’t like Cas was gonna judge him.

“Let’s do it,” he decides, and Castiel snorts before going back to his breakfast. Dean finishes cooking the omelette and slides it onto a plate. He turns off the range and grabs a fork before holding an elbow out to Cas, who snaps up the last of his bacon and scurries up Dean’s arm to his shoulder, hitching a ride to the table.

Dean feeds Cas bites of egg in between scrolling through his emails and idly checking the news. The dragon eats like it doesn’t know where its next meal is coming from ( _ridiculous_ , Castiel knows _exactly_ where his next meal is coming from, Dean thinks with a roll of his eyes), but he stops every now and again between bites to fastidiously clean his muzzle. Every time he bends to reach his face with his forelegs, Dean gets stuck watching how careful Castiel is with teeth and claws and tongue. It’s stupid, but he thinks he could watch the little guy clean his adorable freaking face _all day_.

They finish breakfast and Dean brings the dirty dishes to the sink to wash later. He puts a hand down for Cas to climb aboard the _Good Ship Winchester_ and says, “C’mon, Cas.” When the dragon hesitates, Dean peers down at him curiously. Cas is looking at the back door to the kitchen with what Dean can only interpret as open terror, a quiet whining chirp the only other indication that he’s frightened. He frowns, chewing on his lip before crouching down so he’s at eye level with Cas on the table.

“Hey,” he says, gentle, “I’m not gonna leave you outside again, okay?” Cas looks at Dean for a moment, the little dragon’s gaze weighty and serious. Dean smiles his best reassuring smile, the one he used to pull out any time Sam was wondering where Dad was, _again_ , or worrying that there might be monsters hiding in his closet. “Promise,” Dean adds, which seems to shake Cas out of his daze. He finally climbs into Dean’s waiting hands, winding his body around Dean’s arm and squeezing tightly before continuing on up to his shoulder.

Dean grabs his jacket and pulls it on, and reaches for his keys, gloves, scarf, and hat, bundling himself up thoroughly because seriously, fall is beautiful, but being cold _bites_. He makes sure Cas is securely nestled in the folds of his scarf, the dragon’s body folded in loops and warm and smooth against Dean’s neck. Castiel wriggles around slightly and pushes his head up against Dean’s chin, peering out of his warm cocoon to watch as Dean heads out the back door and into the late autumn morning.

  
**~~~**

Dean strolls leisurely down the sidewalk, hands stuffed in his pockets and face tipped to the open blue sky. Dry leaves crunch underneath his boots. A brisk breeze, smelling of _earth_ and _fire_ and _cold_ , cuts through the air, finding every avenue inside Dean’s many layers. He shivers a little, but enjoys the crisp feeling of autumn against his face.  
  
“Man,” he says, addressing the dragon curled up in his scarf, “how come you wanna stay inside with me all the time?” Dean shakes his head as they pass under an old ginko tree, its yellow, fan-shaped leaves drifting down to the sidewalk, getting caught up underfoot. “It’s so freakin’ nice out here in the fall. I’d be outside all day if I could. Sitting around with a beer and a bonfire? Hell yeah.” He laughs softly when Cas chitters up at him in agreement.

“Well, maybe we’ll try that next weekend,” he muses. “Have Sammy and Eileen over. I’ll make burgers,” he says in a sing-song lilt, and Dean laughs again, louder this time, when Cas starts wriggling and squeaking excitedly over the mention of one of his favorite treats.  
  
Dean walks for several blocks in silent thought. He can’t explain it, but Cas makes him feel more at ease with himself than he has in… years, if he’s being honest. Castiel feels like an old friend, the sort that, no matter how long it’s been since you’ve seen each other last, you can sit down over a beer or a hot meal and pick up right where you left off. Like they’ve known each other their whole lives instead of a handful of weeks.  
  
“You’re pretty special, you know that, Cas?” Dean says at last. He shakes his head. “Never really thought of myself as a… an animal person. A pet person.” He hears the inquisitive chirp from somewhere inside his scarf and laughs softly. “I dunno. I’m real glad you decided you liked my taste in mugs, though.”  
  
Coming around a corner, Dean finds a grassy park with a few trees, ablaze in autumnal yellows, oranges, and reds, and a small pond surrounded by the occasional bench. Ready for a break, he sits down on one of the benches under a massive aspen tree, it’s round, butter-yellow leaves floating down in the slightest breeze. Castiel climbs curiously out from Dean’s scarf and skitters down to his leg, watching the leaves drift in the air before leaping up to try to catch one, wings spread wide.  
  
Dean alternates between watching Cas chase the falling leaves and looking out at the still water of the pond, broken into soft ripples every now and again by the breeze. A sense of stillness washes over him, something peaceful and quiet and perfect. He feels a warm tendril of affection curling around inside his chest when Castiel pounces on a fallen leaf and rolls over with it caught between his claws.  
  
_Adorable little dork_ , he thinks, suddenly chilly and thinking Castiel must be, too. Anyway, he’s ready to cozy up on his couch. It’s Halloween month after all, and he has his yearly movie re-watch to plow through. He lets Cas run about for a moment longer before standing and stretching. “C’mon,” he says. Though Castiel seems reluctant to leave his mock-battles behind, he allows Dean to scoop him up into his arms. The dragon tucks himself away inside Dean’s jacket, hugging himself against Dean, body trembling with cold. A carefree smile creeps across Dean’s face without his permission. “I’ll make us some hot chocolate when we get home.”


	4. Meet the Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam coughs and suggests in a very neutral tone of voice, “Maybe he… thinks _all_ of your mugs are the nest.” Dean looks at Sam suspiciously. When Sam goes all flat like that, Dean knows something is up.
> 
> “Spill, Sam. What’re you thinkin’ about?”
> 
> “Well, I said dragons are a lot like… like bowerbirds, right? They make. Um. They make, you know, um. Oh! Fancy nests, right.” He shifts his weight from side to side, and Dean eyes him warily, wondering if Sam was indeed steady on his feet. “Uh, I maybe should have clarified? They build the fancy nests when they want to. Um. Attract a mate?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all the folks in the US, Happy Eat-a-Turkey Day! Dropping this chapter and the next as a holiday bonus. XD
> 
> Since a lot of us are hurting and looking for fluffy soft things right now, I have to warn that **there is a _brief_ moment of angst in this chapter**, but I can also promise that the rest of the chapter (and really this story on the whole) is just domestic and flufftacular. 
> 
> I'm so thankful for this fandom and the friends I've made through it. I'm thankful for all of the stories I've read that have made me feel seen and validated. And I'm super thankful that SPN lit the fire in me to write again, and for all of you, who are taking the time and energy to read my meager offerings to the incredible extant body of work that is destiel fan fiction. 
> 
> Sending everyone a big, warm hug.

Dean answers the door with Cas clinging to the inside of his hoodie. When Sam comes forward to hug Dean, Cas pokes his face out of the collar and legitimately _hisses_ at him.

Sam looks offended but all Dean can do is laugh. It figures that this weird, grumpy little dragon would prefer Dean, card-carrying member of the Last Person On Earth To Own an Animal Companion Club until only a few weeks ago, to Sam, who would adopt every goddamn dog in the state if he had the space to keep them.

“Guess he doesn’t like you, Sammy,” Dean teases, stepping aside to let his brother in. He claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder and shakes his head. “Don’t worry, man. He’ll warm up to you.” He draws his finger down Castiel’s snout. He looks up at his brother, and if Dean were anyone else he’d admit he was feeling pretty nervous about introducing these two. “Sam, this is Cas. Cas, this is my brother Sam.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “‘Cas’?” he asks, reaching out a tentative finger for the dragon to sniff.

“Yeah. Short for Castiel. Like… like the angel, you know?” Dean mumbles, feeling unexpectedly bashful.

“Angel.” Sam deadpans.

Dean can feel his face turning red. “Yeah. Mom always talked about ’em, I dunno, I just thought–”

“No, no,” Sam hurries to say, holding up both hands in a placating gesture. “Cas is great. Castiel. I like it.” He looks down at the tiny face poking up out of Dean’s hoodie and addresses Cas directly. “It’s nice to meet you, Cas,” he says, very seriously, and Dean stares incredulously at his brother as he walks past him into the living room and dumps his backpack next to the couch. Dean looks down at Cas and sees him preening, hanging over the edge of Dean’s neckline and meticulously washing his face with his delicate claws, chirruping happily to himself.

“Be nice, Cas. Samantha’s gonna cry big fat girl tears if you don’t at least let him pet you once, and believe me, no one wants that.”

By the time Sam and Dean are both driving off Rainbow Road every fifteen seconds because they’d had that many beers, Castiel is sitting in Sam’s lap, curled up in the well of his legs, nose poking up over Sam’s crossed ankles. Dean smiles. He’s glad they seem comfortable with each other. It makes him feel like his little friend is an official part of his family, now, too.

**~~~**

Dean tips his head back against the couch cushions, staring up at the ceiling as the room slowly spins. Time for him to tap out. He rolls his head to the side, looking over at Sam, who now has Castiel laying across one broad palm as he strokes the dragon from head to tail with the other. Cas’ face is blissful: his eyes are closed softly and he just looks so… _content_ , purring softly in Sam’s hands. It makes something tight and warm curl around Dean’s ribs. That’s _his_ dragon. For some weirdo reason, Castiel had… chosen Dean, and Dean finds himself feeling so genuinely honored to be chosen by such a remarkable creature.

He reaches out a hand and says softly, “Hey, Cas. Cas. C’mere, buddy.” He wiggles his fingers in Castiel’s general direction. Cas opens one eye and gives Dean a baleful glare. Arching up into Sam’s palm, Cas wriggles out of Sam’s grip and scuttles over the couch cushions to Dean’s waiting hand.

Scooping Castiel up against his chest, Dean scratches a finger lightly between the dragon’s wings. He looks down into Cas’ face and smiles, dopey and soft. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he says, the endearment rolling off his tongue easy as pie. Dean is definitely too drunk to think about that right now. “Let’s get you to bed, huh?” In response, Cas leans his forepaws against Dean’s chest, stretches up long, and licks him gently on the chin. Dean smiles and scratches between Cas’ wings again, unthinkingly dropping a kiss to the top of Cas’ head.

Looking over at his brother, Dean kicks a socked foot out at Sam’s leg and catches his brother just below the knee.

“Ow!” Sam yelps.

“Can it, Samantha, it’s bedtime for you, too,” Dean grumbles. He pushes himself to his feet one-handed, carefully cradling Castiel against his chest as he struggles not to tip over once he’s upright. He turns slowly to Sam and offers his brother a hand; how they manage not to go down in a tangle of limbs is beyond Dean.

“I’m grabbing. I’m. Uh. I’m grabbing some water,” Sam says, walking into the kitchen on unfairly steady legs. He calls back over his shoulder at Dean, “Do you want some water? You should have some water, Dean.”

“Sure,” Dean agrees, easy, following Sam into the kitchen. He watches as Sam gropes around in the cabinets for two tall glasses, and accepts one brimming over with cold water from the tap. “Thanks, Sammy,” Dean says before taking a sip, careful to hold Cas away from the water spilling over the sides of the glass.

They drink in comfortable silence. Castiel squirms out of Dean’s hold and disappears up his t-shirt, reappearing on Dean’s shoulder a moment later. Dean smiles and moves to fill his glass for a second round when Sam speaks up, soft. “I wonder why Cas was in a mug…?” he muses, his face scrunched in a thoughtful frown.

With a shrug, Dean turns on the tap and refills his glass, shutting the water off _before_ it reaches the top, geez, Sam. “Dunno,” he says, turning around and leaning back against the edge of his big kitchen sink. “I always thought it was too plain for a dragon, especially after you made that big deal about the fancy nests, but Cas kept picking it over every other nest I tried to make him, so.”

“Hmm,” Sam hums, his hands wrapped around his glass of water, eyes distant as he thinks. Dean doesn’t know how or if Sam can string two thoughts together right now. He’s not _very_ drunk, but he’s enough drunk to know linear thought is going to be a challenge.

Possibly feeling left out, Castiel noses behind Dean’s ear, huffing. Dean tries – and mostly succeeds – not to jump out of his skin from the tickling sensation. “Hey!” he chides, “That’s playing dirty, Cas.” If dragons could harrumph, Castiel would have been the grand emperor of harrumphing, Dean is one-hundred-percent sure.

Sam coughs and suggests in a very neutral tone of voice, “Maybe he… thinks _all_ of your mugs are the nest.” Dean looks at Sam suspiciously. When Sam goes all flat like that, Dean knows something is up.

“Spill, Sam. What’re you thinkin’ about?”

“Well, I said dragons are a lot like… like bowerbirds, right? They make. Um. They make, you know, um. Oh! Fancy nests, right.” He shifts his weight from side to side, and Dean eyes him warily, wondering if Sam was indeed steady on his feet. “Uh, I maybe should have clarified? They build the fancy nests when they want to. Um. Attract a mate?”

Dean blinks. Then blinks again, especially when Sammy gets that hunted look on his face. “Riiiiiiiight…?”

“Right, so, maybe, um. Maybe Cas didn’t want any of the other nests you made. Because he thought your– your epic mug collection… and your pastries… and, and Baby’s keys… I mean, they’re so shiny, dude! Were the nest?”

“That I made.” Dean says flatly.

“Yeah.”

“To attract a _mate_.”

Sam at least has the decency to look like maybe this is one of the weirder ideas he’s had in a while, though Dean is pretty sure they can’t entirely blame the alcohol for Sam coming up with it. “Right.”

“We’re just gonna skip over the part where, I don’t know, I’m not really the same species here?” Dean finally says. He can feel Castiel’s claws dig into the skin of his shoulder, and the dragon noses behind his ear again, tickling. Dean twists his head to look down at Cas. “Quit it, you,” he mutters fondly.

Sam shrugs and starts shuffling out of the kitchen and back toward the living room. Dean finishes off his water and leaves the glass on the counter before following his brother, waiting to hear if he has an answer to Dean’s snark.

“That part, I can’t explain,” Sam admits, sitting down on the couch and pulling off his socks. “Gonna crash here,” he announces, laying down on the couch and closing his eyes. “Late. Tired. Don’t wanna go home.”

“”s fine, Sammy. Figured you’d stay. I’ll go get a blanket.” Dean goes to his hallway closet and pulls out a quilt for Sam. He stalks back into the living room intending to dump the blanket right on Sam’s face, but his brother is already asleep and Dean finds, in this moment, he doesn’t have the heart. He shakes the quilt out as quietly as he can and drapes it over Sam’s lanky frame, trying not to dislodge Castiel from his shoulder in the process.

His need to take care of his brother satisfied, Dean turns and walks down the hallway to his bedroom. Castiel chirrups right next to Dean’s ear and Dean startles, stumbling a step on the way to the bed. “Gonna give me a heart attack, Cas. Shit,” he mutters.

Dean barely manages to get out of his jeans and into his pajama pants before his body can’t take being vertical anymore. Somehow Castiel manages to cling to Dean’s shoulder through all of his drunken fumbling, and once Dean is settled on his back in bed, Cas slides his long body down onto Dean’s chest, curling up into a tangled knot of white scales and blue feathers, a warm bundle right over Dean’s heart. Resting his hand gently over Cas’ body, Dean strokes a thumb over the dragon’s scales and feels a smile creep across his face. He drifts comfortably to sleep listening to the sound of Castiel’s soft, stuttering purr.

**~~~**

Dean opens his eyes and stares blearily up at his ceiling. They’d been up pretty late last night, so Dean isn’t surprised to see mid-morning sunlight streaming in through the windows. His head does not appreciate the cheery assault. He hadn’t had _that_ much to drink, he’s sure, but it looks like it was just enough to give him a biting headache. Groaning, he rolls over and swings his legs out of bed. He massages at his temples before twisting to look around for Castiel.

He definitely remembers falling asleep with the white-and-blue dragon lying on his chest. He doesn’t see Cas immediately, though, so Dean looks over to his nightstand. It’s not uncommon for Cas to curl up around his mug after Dean’s fallen asleep, but when he peers over, there’s no sign of the dragon.   
  
Heart stuttering in his chest, Dean has a sudden, horrible idea. Cas was in the bed, snuggled up on him, when he’d fallen asleep. What if Cas hadn’t gone back to his mug at all? What if Dean had rolled over in the middle of the night and was too drunk to notice he’d…?

Pulse suddenly beating hard in his throat, Dean carefully tugs on his comforter and sheets, stunned by how profoundly terrified he is of finding a small, dead body in the bedding.

Cas is definitely not in the bed, though.

Unsure if he should be relieved or even more anxious, Dean strides into the living room and pokes Sam urgently. “Sam,” he says, digging fingers into Sam’s side and under his armpit where Dean knows his brother is ticklish. “Sammy, get up. I need your help.”

Sam throws an arm out and swats blindly at Dean, pushing his face into the couch cushions and grumbling, “Go _away,_ Dean, I’m _dying_.”

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean says in his best surrogate-dad voice, “get _up_. I can’t find Cas.”

Rolling his head to look up at Dean out of the corner of his eye, Sam clearly registers the distress on Dean’s face and lets out a long, slow breath. “Okay,” he says, soft, and pushes himself up to sitting.

Dean gives Sam a minute to get used to being upright before they start tearing the house apart looking for Castiel. Dean knows there are all manner of places Cas could’ve smuggled himself into, and he looks in every corner of every room, every dusty nook and cranny. He goes outside and peeks under the raspberry bushes, the lavender beds, the wisteria. He checks under the front porch. He looks inside his mailbox.

Castiel is nowhere to be found.

Eventually, Dean trudges back inside, his feet dragging. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. Cas is a wild thing, after all, and Dean has no real right to keep him. So what if Castiel had wormed his way into Dean’s heart? Cas belongs to himself and is free to go whenever he pleases. It’s kinda crazy that he’s stayed as long as he has.

After so many weeks, though, Dean is used to having the dragon in his space. He’s used to talking to him as a… well a _friend_ , dammit.

He sniffles back the start of _totally unwarranted_ tears and scrubs the back of his hand across his nose. Looks like he’s just going to have to get _un-used_ to it.

Sam opens the front door as Dean returns from the mailbox. “No luck?” he asks when he sees the look on Dean’s face.

Dean shakes his head, mute, and shambles over to his coffee maker, feeling remarkably sad. He flips the machine on and listens to it drip, then wanders back into his room, his heart breaking just a little. Sam trails behind him, arms crossed over his chest, respecting Dean’s space and silence for all of forty-five seconds.

“Hey,” Sam suddenly blurts out as Dean sits on the edge of his bed, headache back in full swing, “maybe you can… I don’t know, put flyers up or something. Maybe post a message on Nextdoor, or…?”

Dean shrugs, feeling prickly and kinda hopeless. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Dean…”

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean says, his voice quiet. “He wasn’t really– he wasn’t _mine_ , y’know?” He rubs a hand down his face and blows out a sigh, looks up at the ceiling and then finally over at Sam, who’s standing in the doorway with compassion written all over his face.

“C’mon, man, don’t look at me like that,” Dean gripes, getting up and crossing over to his bedroom door. He reaches behind it to where his bathrobe hangs on its hook and draws it out, wanting to feel like he’s wrapped in a hug but definitely too hung over and _definitely_ too close to actual chick-flick tears to ask Sam for one.

“Excuse me for feeling some empathy,” Sam snarks, to which Dean can only weakly reply, “Bitch,” as he shrugs into his robe and feels something solid and warm thump against his chest.

Sam’s automatic reply sounds far away to Dean’s ears as he looks down into his breast pocket and sees Castiel slumbering away, body curled in lazy loops, wings draped over the edge of the pocket and tail twitching, iridescent scales winking up at him. A startled laugh bursts out of Dean, light and happy, the sudden and total reversal of feeling leaving him dizzy. His laugh makes Cas blink his eyes open, and he looks up at Dean with an expression that Dean has come to know means _happy dragon_.

Dean’s heart, almost torn in two, knits itself back together, consoled by the earnest, loving look on Castiel’s face.

“Oh, god,” Dean breathes, relieved, “you absolute little shit.” Cas tilts his head and his face contorts into a frown, obviously displeased with this new nickname. “You scared the fuck outta me, Cas.”

Dean finally looks up at Sam, still surprised by how overjoyed he is that Castiel isn’t gone. Sam is smiling, too. “At least now you know where to look for him if he ever disappears like that again,” his brother says with a nod towards Dean’s pocket, where Castiel’s nose pokes up just over the edge. He barely fits inside anymore, but is clearly content to be tied up in knots and crammed into a tight space as long as he can snuggle right up against Dean.

Dean laughs again. “Yeah, I guess I do,” he agrees, rubbing at Cas behind the ears. His soft, rumbling purr fills the air as they all wander back in the direction of the kitchen in search of coffee and breakfast.

Dean cooks up bacon and eggs (“Dean, I just want some toast–” “Shut up, Sam, you’re gonna have bacon and eggs and _like_ it, this is my house.”) and pours them both generous mugs of coffee. As Cas starts chirping excitedly in his pocket, Dean digs into the cabinet next to the stove for some Advil and brings the bottle to the table with their plates. He passes it silently to Sam, who takes two blue pills out of the bottle and tosses them in his mouth, swallowing them dry.

“Gross,” Dean says, taking the bottle himself and washing his painkillers down with caffeine like a normal person. He digs into his eggs, pretending to ignore Castiel’s increasingly distressed squeaking and telling his brother, “Best hangover cure ever, by the way.”

Sam rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Sure, Dean.”

“What, it is! Bacon, eggs, coffee and Advil, man. You’ll feel like a real person again in no time.”

“Dean, you’re telling me this like I’ve never had a beer before in my life,” Sam grouses, eggs disappearing with alarming rapidity.

Pointing his fork at his brother, Dean smirks. “Thought you only wanted some toast, Sammy,” he says smugly. Sam just flips him off and continues to shovel scrambled eggs into his mouth like someone is going to snatch his plate away at any moment.

Finally fed up with being “ignored,” Castiel slithers out of Dean’s robe pocket into his lap and wiggles his way up onto the table. He stands on all fours next to Dean’s plate, stamping his feet and chittering impatiently. Like the total sucker he is, Dean gives in at this display, chuckling softly as he tears off a small piece of bacon and holds it out for Cas to take. The dragon snaps the morsel up and nearly takes Dean’s fingertips with it, then gives a little hop backwards, chirping again. Another bite of bacon vanishes from Dean’s fingers almost faster than the first.

Sam laughs. “Aren’t you supposed to be feeding him crickets?” he asks, setting his fork down in favor of his coffee mug.

Dean just nods his head, scratching under Cas’ chin. “Probably,” he concedes, watching as Castiel curls his lithe body around the outside of Dean’s own mug, winding through the handle and leaning his chin on the edge. Dean threads his fingers into the spaces left by Cas’ body and enjoys the warmth spreading all through him.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, watching as Dean tries to carefully sip from the mug that’s been almost entirely commandeered by Cas, “You don’t want him getting fat.”

“Hey!” Dean exclaims, indignant. “I eat bacon all the time and _I’m_ not fat.” He grins down at Castiel fondly. “Besides, I don’t care if he gets chunky as long as he stays.”


	5. It's a Gift, You Keep Those

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a baking companion, Dean has to admit, Cas kinda sucks.

As a baking companion, Dean has to admit, Cas kinda sucks.

Any time Dean’s got the wherewithal to bake at home (rare – usually only for holidays, but sometimes he just wants some chocolate chip cookies, okay?), he’s taken to trying to distract Castiel with food because otherwise the little scamp wants to stick his paws into literally _everything_ , which, ick, unsanitary much? Dean learned the hard way that trying to limit Cas’ movement or remove him from the kitchen entirely just resulted in hurt feelings or an even bigger clean-up disaster (see: that time he’d tried trapping Cas under a colander and an entire bag of confectionary sugar had ended up _all over his goddamn kitchen_ in Cas’ – successful – escape attempt).

The last straw is when Dean is making a black-bottom bourbon pecan pie for dinner with Sam and Eileen (he knows Sam can take pie or leave it, the _heathen_ , but Eileen knows what’s up and loves Dean’s pecan pie). The smell of butter and sugar and bourbon is thick in the kitchen and Metallica is playing loud, offering a background to the sounds of Dean banging around in his cabinets and on the stove. He’s dusted the counter with flour, ready to roll out his chilled chocolate pastry dough, when Castiel bursts out from behind the open sack of flour to pounce on Dean’s hands, playfully batting at him and then bouncing away. His little feet leave paw prints all across the floured counter – bad enough – but he rolls and loses his balance, flapping his wings to right himself, and all the flour goes poofing up into a cloud of dust, right in Dean’s face.

Coughing, Dean grabs at Cas and lifts him off the counter. “ _Jesus_ , Cas!” he bites out, annoyed in the split second before he sees Castiel’s face, head down and eyes up in his best impression of a contrite puppy that would put Sam to shame. Dean lets out a sigh. “Dunno how many times I gotta say it, dude,” he mutters as he drapes Cas onto the table. Cas makes a face that, if on a human being, would reasonably be called a pout. “No little dragon feet in my baking space, okay?” Dean turns to the fridge and digs out a couple of strawberries. He gives them a quick rinse and then drops them onto the table with Castiel. “Here, have a snack.”

Cas gives an indignant chirp, but grabs at the largest strawberry and shoves his whole snout into the soft fruit. Thoroughly distracted by his sweet treat (and looking now like something out of a horror movie, white shimmering scales covered in red strawberry gore), Dean goes back to his baking, cleaning off the counter before re-dusting it with flour and rolling out the dough.

When he’s finally sliding the pie into the oven, Dean turns his attention to Cas, who now lies wrapped around himself, sticky from his snack. Red streaks of strawberry juice defy Castiel’s attempts to clean himself to his usual meticulous standard, and he looks mightily grumpy about it. Dean smiles and picks him up.

“Bath time,” he says, heading down the hall to the bathroom. He runs the water in the tub until it’s just overly warm, then plugs it up and lets Cas slide into the shallow bath. Dean watches as he swim-slithers around, rolling over and using his wings to flick water up at Dean.

“Watch it,” he laughs, “or I might just have to come in there after you.” At this Castiel looks up at Dean with his blue eyes big and hopeful. When Dean just shakes his head Cas flicks water up at him again.

“C’mere, you little punk,” Dean says, splashing water over Cas and laughing again when the dragon looks mortally wounded that Dean would retaliate in this manner. He makes a grab for Cas, but his long snake-like body slides right out of Dean’s grip in the water and the dragon makes a mad scramble for the shower curtain, bunched up at one end of the tub. He gets his claws into the fabric just as Dean manages to get a good grip on Castiel, helped along by the fact that the dragon has gotten a little thicker around the middle.

Lifting him out of the tub, Dean pulls down a fluffy towel and rolls Cas into it. As he dries the dragon off, Cas licks at Dean’s thumb, and he looks fondly at the bundle in his arms. He feels so different with Cas around. Lighter, more prone to play. It’s much easier for him to let things go.

He’s gently patting the feathers of Castiel’s wings and tail dry when he asks, “You wanna come watch a movie with me, bud?” Cas tilts his head in his questioning way, and Dean shrugs. “Pie’s got a while yet. I can make some popcorn.” As usual, the mention of food sends Cas all aflutter.

“Okay,” Dean says. “ _A Quiet Place_ or _Hocus Pocus_?”

**~~~**

Dean marks his place in _All Systems Red_ and lays the book down on his nightstand. The movement disturbs Castiel, who lets out a disgruntled chirp as he slides down Dean’s side to the mattress.  
  
“Sorry, Cas,” Dean murmurs, reaching for him, but the dragon ducks Dean’s hand and scrambles up on to the nightstand in an impressive series of acrobatic twists. He looks at Dean over his shoulder, then waddles over to his mug and grips the rim, peering inside. His head disappears into the mug for a moment, and when he lifts it back out Cas is holding a long, blue flight feather in his mouth.  
  
At first Dean thinks it belongs to a blue jay, but as Castiel comes closer Dean can see the feather has no black striping and is the same shade of blue as Cas’ own. It even looks like one wing has had a feather plucked from it.  
  
Cas climbs up onto Dean’s chest, mindful of the feather in his mouth, obviously trying to keep it from being damaged. With a solemn look and keeping his blue eyes on Dean’s face, Cas lowers the feather and places it, careful and deliberate, right over Dean’s heart. Then he reaches up to brace himself on Dean’s chin and presses his nose against Dean’s, affectionate, a soft purr buzzing through the quiet bedroom.  
  
For a minute Dean is frozen. This gesture seems so much more… intentional that Dean is used to expecting from Cas, more weighty. He’s not entirely sure how to respond, and when he takes too long to do so Cas moves back down onto his chest and noses at the feather itself, pushing it a little bit towards Dean, then looks back up at him with his eyes wide and expectant.  
  
Dean takes a breath and reaches out to touch the spot on Castiel’s wing that is clearly missing a feather, keeping the pressure of his fingers light. He looks at Cas’ earnest face and asks, quiet, “For me?” When Cas chirps in agreement, Dean takes up the feather Cas has offered him and turns it this way and that in the light of his bedside lamp. A minute shimmer in the blue catches the light, making the colors shift from aqua to azure to cerulean and back.  
  
Castiel rolls over on his chest, bringing Dean’s attention back to him and his exposed underbelly. With a soft hum Dean strokes a finger down the long blue stripe adorning Cas’ skin. The dragon looks up at him, eyes half-closed, and purrs louder, his little body quivering from tip to tail. Dean smiles down at Cas and says, “Thank you.” For some reason he feels like he’ll insult Cas if he puts the feather down. So Dean, carefully juggling both the delicate gift and his languid friend, leans over to turn off his lamp and settles himself under the covers.  
  
He drifts off to sleep with Cas cuddled up snug under one hand, contented purr a lulling rumble, and his beautiful feather clutched loosely in the other.

**~~~**

In the morning, even before coffee, Dean takes some kitchen twine and ties it around the quill of Castiel’s feather, then hangs it on a hook right over his bed.


	6. Dibs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tiny seed of worry takes root in Dean’s chest as he starts looking through the house for Cas. He thinks back to Sam’s joke about always knowing where to look for the dragon, but Cas is definitely too big now to even think about hiding in Dean’s bathrobe pocket anymore. Still, he makes his way down the hall to his bedroom, figuring it’s most likely that Cas has stayed near his hoard. And also where it’s warmest, under the blankets, since it’s getting closer and closer to winter and what Dean assumes will be hibernation time.
> 
> Dean’s feet carry him to the threshold of his room, where he stops short, eyes wide and lungs frozen in sudden panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, despite that summary, I can officially say there's pretty much nothing but more unrepentant fluff in this chapter. 
> 
> Other than that, I'm sending y'all in blind. Enjoy! ::blows kisses::

It’s about a week before Dean realizes that Castiel is acting strangely. Cas has always wanted to be near Dean as far as he’s been able to tell, but for the last few days the dragon’s need for attention has been insatiable. Every day when Dean comes home from the bakery, Cas is waiting by the door, dogging at Dean’s heels and chirruping at him insistently while Dean drops his leftover pastries in their customary spot next to the coffee maker and hangs up Baby’s keys. The dragon won’t stop until Dean gives in and lifts Cas onto his shoulder, where he happily snuffs behind Dean’s ear and seems to always be licking at the skin there.

This in and of itself wouldn’t be so peculiar, Dean thinks, but now Castiel clings to Dean with something akin to desperation, from the moment he gets home to the moment he leaves for work in the wee hours of the morning. He gets agitated if Dean leaves him alone, even if he’s only going into the next room for a second. Once Dean just gets up to _pee_ , for chrissake, and closes the door on Cas, who had followed him from the living room. The dragon spends the entire time Dean’s doing his business scratching frantically at the bathroom door.   
  
Cas is grouchy and irritable, growling and snapping at Sam when he comes over for video games that night, giving him an unfriendly snarl when the Moose greets Dean with a hug at the door or any time he makes casual contact with his brother. Castiel spends the evening with his body curled around Dean’s throat like a living collar, alternately hissing at Sam in warning and poking his nose up into Dean’s chin, delicate tongue flicking out to barely kiss the skin there.

“What’s going on with you?” Dean wonders out loud after he’s sent Sam on his way and is climbing into bed. Castiel gives him this thoughtful look as Dean settles himself under the covers. Dean can feel himself frowning as Cas studies him, the little dragon’s gaze intense and almost... intimate. With a tiny huff, Cas snuggles up against Dean’s side, nosing under Dean’s armpit and making him squirm. He’s tickled Dean like this before, but Dean’s not feeling very playful. He’s starting to worry that something is wrong and… and he won’t know how to fix it.

“Quit that,” he says, and Cas peeks up over Dean’s chest. He shoves his snout right back into the ticklish juncture under Dean’s arm, and that’s it. For the first time since Cas appeared, Dean feels his temper boil up and spill out of him, masking the worry that’s eating at his insides.

“Hey!” he snaps, and his voice is loud enough that it startles Castiel into sitting up and back. “I said, quit it, Cas.” Almost immediately, guilt rushes over Dean when Castiel’s face goes from grouchy petulance to something akin to shame. 

Dean rolls to face Castiel squarely, propping himself up on his elbow. He lays a tentative hand on Cas, just below where his wings sprout from his back. Hesitating, feeling the rise and fall of Castiel breathing, Dean takes a deep breath too and ducks his head to catch Cas’ eye.

“Sorry,” he says, soft, “sorry. Just. You’ve been actin’ weird all week. Guess I’m worried a little, is all.” Cas huffs and opens his wings, flopping over onto his side, exposing the thin blue stripe on his belly. Dean reaches out to trace it with the tip of his finger before rubbing Cas’ underside in long circular strokes. They lay on the bed in silence until Castiel’s purring softly fills the room. Dean watches his tail twitch back and forth, lazy and slow. Dean sits up, cross-legged, and lifts Cas’ pliant body into his lap. He continues petting Cas on his back, now, head to tail, and Cas sits, beatific, his face pointed up at Dean and his eyes closed, just… enjoying.

Dean lets out a soft laugh. “Just needed some lovin’, huh?” he jokes, keeping his voice low. “Well.” Dean cradles Castiel’s face and draws the dragon close, laying a soft kiss right between his eyes, open now and gazing at Dean softly. His purring intensifies, more of a rumble than a buzz. “You know I love ya, buddy.” Dean says this and realizes suddenly that it is very much true. He’s known basically from the beginning that Cas is special, and has loved him, as much as a human being can love a dragon, since perhaps a split second after the first time Dean found him curled up in his coffee cup.

Castiel rewards this realization by gripping Dean’s t-shirt with his claws, hoisting himself up Dean’s torso, and biting him, hard, on the cap of his left shoulder.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean yelps, scrambling back against the headboard and shoving at Cas to no avail. The dragon’s jaws remain clamped shut, teeth firmly dug into muscle, claws wrapped in the sleeve of Dean’s t-shirt. His long body is draped over Dean like a sash and he alternates between a low rumbling growl and his softer, contented purring. Dean is surprised to find himself fighting back the sting of tears. It would figure he couldn’t even share his feelings about a _dragon_ with said dragon without getting hurt.   
  
Dean’s shoulder burns but Cas won’t let go. Dean grits his teeth and tries to breathe through the pain and his automatic reaction, his hands around Castiel’s wiry body slowly unclenching. Long minutes pass with Dean breathing hard through his nose, reaching for patience, hoping that if he relaxes, then maybe Cas will relax, too.

He doesn’t even realize that he’s shushing Castiel and petting down his back until he feels Cas’ jaws loosen. His body close and warm, Cas relaxes against Dean and pulls away from his shoulder, laying his chin over it for a moment as though nothing had happened. Then he noses under the sleeve of Dean’s t-shirt and proceeds to lick at the bite he’s inflicted. Dean hisses, pained, feeling the long drag of Cas’ tongue shiver through the whole of him as the dragon licks and soothes the wound. He gulps in a deep breath and leans over to grab his phone from the nightstand, still cradling Castiel against him. He pulls up the sleeve of his shirt so Cas won’t feel cramped pushing his face inside.

He can feel the itchy trickle of blood sliding down his arm as he brings up Sam’s number and hits send. The bite starts to tingle and then goes gradually, pleasantly numb.

It’s not too long after Sam left to head home, but he picks up almost right away, and Dean can hear the hum of tires over asphalt through the line. “Hey, Dean, what’s up? Everything okay?”

Still petting down Cas’ back with shaking hands, Dean winces when Cas’ tongue catches a rough edge of the bite, the sensation momentarily bleeding through the numbness. He can’t explain why his voice is shaking, too. “Not really, no.”

He can almost hear the gears turning in his brother’s brain over the phone.

“Is Cas okay?” Sam asks at last, and Dean feels like he really shouldn’t be surprised at this point how easily Sam can deduce what’s going on with him.

“Uh, actually. Um. I dunno,” Dean stutters out. He looks down at Cas, who looks up at Dean through his eyelashes, both apologetic and possessive. He huffs up at Dean, his brows drawn down in a frown, and chirps in the direction of the phone, as if he’s offended Dean is using it right now. Dean does not know what to make of this.

“He’s been really weird this week,” he continues into the silence.

“He _was_ pretty grumpy tonight,” Sam observes, a note of concern in his voice. Dean nods even though he knows Sam can’t see him.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “and, uh. He just bit me?”

“Oh, shit. Are _you_ okay?”

“Yeah. He, uh,” Dean coughs, “he’s like… cleaning it, now?” He looks at Cas, gone back to busily lapping at Dean’s shoulder, and thinks really hard about all of the snuggling and clinging and… and _kissing_ that’s been going on for the last week.

In his ear, Sam hums thoughtfully. “Just a sec,” he says, and Dean hears Sam kill the engine of his shitty little Prius. While he waits for Sam to get in the house and come back to the call, Dean pulls Castiel away from his shoulder. The dragon squirms in his grip, fighting to get back, and Dean says softly, “Take it easy, I’m just gonna get my shirt off.”

Castiel calms, dropping to all fours on the bed next to Dean but laying the tip of his tail against Dean’s leg. Dean drops his own phone to the nightstand, then inhales sharply through his nose as he eases his t-shirt over his head, smoldering heat blossoming over the numbness in his shoulder and sharpening into something more acute as he moves. He tosses the shirt across the room and, feeling his heart skip a beat, holds his hand out to Cas. For a long moment Cas just stares, and then he’s sliding into Dean’s lap, pressing his paws into Dean’s chest and reaching up to continue his ministrations. Dean’s shoulder throbs with his heartbeat, heavy and slow.

“Okay, so, get this,” Dean hears Sam’s voice sounding tinny from the nightstand. He leans over, reaching for his phone and trying not to unbalance Castiel in the process. He presses the phone to his ear as Sam goes on, “remember how I told you Cas thought you were making a nest for him?”

“Duh, Sam, how could I forget?”

Sam sighs and Dean can practically _hear_ the face he’s making. “Well, it says here that, in the wild, once a dragon accepts a mate, they’ll, um.”

He hesitates and Dean rolls his eyes. “Just spit it out, Sammy.”

“Well, basically,” Sam hedges, “it’s a mating bite. Like they, um, bite each other? And then they’re. Well.”

“ _Sam_.”

“They mate for life, Dean,” Sam explains, sounding constipated. “The bites are like, the equivalent of putting a ring on it.” He pauses, and Dean senses something weighty in the silence. “I think… I think it means that Cas, uh. Castiel loves you. A lot.”

Dean sits, Cas’ weight against him, as goosebumps chase each other down his body, head-to-toe. He thinks, for a minute, that he should feel more troubled by this information, because, really, how is this even a thing that could happen? What possessed Castiel to even… even _notice_ Dean, much less think that a collection of mugs – hello, a totally _normal thing that literally anyone might have in their kitchen_ – was a carefully crafted love-nest meant for a teeny dragon? And yet, he can’t find a shred of distress in him. Instead, the knowledge that Cas has trusted Dean with something so… instinctual, _primal_ even… makes him feel like he has so much inside him that he’s going to explode like a goddamn firework. Which should also feel weird, but just… doesn’t.

“Yeah?” he says finally, soft, looking at Castiel, who pauses mid-lick to look back before laying his head on Dean’s shoulder, exposing his throat and purring louder. Dean runs his thumb over the pulse he sees shivering under Cas’ skin, gentle and slow, fascinated by how strongly he can feel it.

“Um.” Sam sounds suddenly even more uncomfortable. “Should I leave you two alone?” he jokes weakly, and Dean lets out a quiet laugh.

“Actually, yeah,” he says. “’Night, Sam.” He hangs up on Sam’s squawking protests and tosses his phone back on the nightstand. It lands and rattles Castiel’s mug, long abandoned at this point, in favor of Cas sleeping curled up on top of Dean at night. Dean touches a finger to the rim of the mug. He smiles to himself.

“Best thirty-five bucks I’ve ever spent,” he tells Cas, feeling his heart swell, profoundly grateful for the warm, living bundle now poking his nose behind Dean’s ear with a snuff.

“Guess I’m your husband now?” he says with a smile, and Cas chirps at him, a tiny whooping sound that Dean decides to interpret as a laugh. Castiel nuzzles up against Dean’s neck, pressing his face there and peppering Dean’s skin with little lick-kisses, enthusiastic and joyful and clearly very pleased with Dean’s declaration.   
  
Dean has to say, weird as it might be, that he’s pretty pleased himself.

  
**~~~**

Dean groans as _Heat of the Moment_ blares loudly into his bedroom, the buzzing vibration of his phone rattling across the nightstand and jarring Dean into consciousness. He slaps at it, already mostly awake from the adrenaline jolt that can only come from realizing your boss is calling you because you’re late. Shit. _Shit_.

Thumbing open his phone, Dean sees the time and swears, tumbling out of bed and pulling on the nearest pair of jeans and what he’s pretty sure is a clean henley. “Gabe, shit, man,” he grumbles, voice rough with unrestful sleep. “I’m sorry, I slept like crap, didn’t even hear my alarm. I’m– I’m on my way–” He’s babbling into the phone, shoving his socked feet into his boots and striding down the hall without bothering to tie them. He comes into the kitchen, grabs his keys and his coat, and hustles out the back door. He’ll have to make a coffee at the bakery, no time right now. 

“Dean-o! Thought you’d finally abandoned ship, dude,” Gabe says in an obnoxiously cheerful voice. How. _How_ could anyone be like this so early in the morning? 

Dean grunts as he pulls the back door shut behind him, wrestling with the lock and juggling his phone. “’Course not. I’ll be right there. 15 minutes,” he grunts. 

“Good. The croissants aren’t going to bake themselves, you know what I’m saying?”

“Yep. See you in a few.” Dean hangs up and throws himself into Baby’s front seat. Glancing up into the rearview mirror, he runs fingers through his hair in a fruitless effort to make it look less rumpled before he stops with a self-deprecating huff. Like Gabe gives a single fuck about how Dean’s hair looks. Shaking his head, Dean starts the car and throws an arm over the back of the seat, twisting around to watch behind him as he backs out onto the road, empty of other cars at this early hour. He’ll be at work in no time.

Not like Gabe is really going to come down on him hard for being late. Even though Gabe’s his boss, he’s probably the most laid-back boss Dean has ever worked for. Besides, they’re pretty good friends. He knows Gabe will forgive him. Dean doesn’t make a habit of showing up late.  
  
He’d just had a rough night. Once he and Cas had both calmed down some, Dean had gone into the bathroom, Cas tagging along behind him, to clean the bite mark on his shoulder and wrap it up in some gauze. The numbness had melted away into a low, dull throb that kept waking Dean up just as he drifted off into sleep. At one delirious point in the night he texted Sam to ask if dragons were venomous at all. He was pretty sure they weren’t, but who knows, it wasn’t like there was a ton of information out there on dragons giving _mating bites_ to _human beings_ , and besides, he was sleep-drunk. Or tired-drunk, whatever. All he knew was he was exhausted, his shoulder hurt like hell, and he had to be up at _ungodly o’clock_ to be to work on time.  
  
Naturally, even though he’d had the worst night of sleep he’s had in while, he managed to sleep deeply enough to blow right through his alarm.

Trying to shrug the tension out of his shoulders as he drives, he spares a thought for Castiel still asleep in the bed. Dean hopes the little guy isn’t too upset to find himself alone when he wakes up.   
  
Even though he’s next to useless without caffeine in the morning, Dean promises himself he’ll remember to grab some of the honeyed cornbread Cas likes as a peace offering for later.

  
**~~~**   
  


Thoroughly worn out from being on his feet all day at a busy bakery after a night of next-to-zero sleep, Dean trudges into his house ready for bed at four in the afternoon. He closes the back door as a gust of wind tries to bluster past him into the warmth of his kitchen and drops his bag of pastries on the counter in their usual spot. Hanging up his keys and shrugging out of his jacket, he glances around for Castiel, mildly surprised that he’s not already threading himself between Dean’s ankles. No – he’s definitely not in the kitchen. Dean turns his head to listen, but he doesn’t hear any squeaks or chirps or scuffling as Cas makes a run for the door to greet him.   
  
Huh.

A tiny seed of worry takes root in Dean’s chest as he starts looking through the house for Cas. He thinks back to Sam’s joke about always knowing where to look for the dragon, but Cas is definitely too big now to even think about hiding in Dean’s bathrobe pocket anymore. Still, he makes his way down the hall to his bedroom, figuring it’s most likely that Cas has stayed near his hoard. And also where it’s warmest, under the blankets, since it’s getting closer and closer to winter and what Dean assumes will be hibernation time.

Dean’s feet carry him to the threshold of his room, where he stops short, eyes wide and lungs frozen in sudden panic.  
  
Someone is in his bed.  
  
A very _naked_ someone is _in his goddamn bed_ , what the fuck?  
  
Dean barely has a second to really register any of this, or the miles and miles of smooth skin, or the short, tousled, inky black hair before the person stirs and stretches, back to Dean, showing off heavily muscled thighs, long, beautifully sculpted calves, and an ass that looks like it is absolutely _begging_ for a smack.

Dean’s mouth is utterly dry and his heart, already fluttering in panic in his chest, decides that he needs to feel every beat of his blood to the very tips of his extremities.   
  
He’s still frozen to the spot when the person – man, man, that’s _definitely_ a man, _Jesus_ – rolls over and blinks up at Dean with the bluest eyes he’s ever fucking seen, _shit_. Their gazes collide and Dean’s brain sparks once like a firework before it completely short circuits.   
  
“Um,” he says intelligently.   
  
The man on the bed smiles broadly, eyes alight with pleasure at seeing Dean, who can only stand there, shaken. The man laughs softly, a deep rumbling sound that makes Dean’s already overloaded nerves send a wobbly signal to his knees. He catches a glimpse of a blue-ish tattoo on the man’s chest and stomach before he props himself up on an elbow, laying on his side, casual, and says, “Hello, Dean,” in a voice that sounds like it crawled up through the depths of the earth. “Welcome home.” When Dean still just stands there flapping his jaw like a moron, the man continues: “I missed you while you were away.”   
  
Dean finally snaps out of his daze and he takes a quick step back into the hallway. “How did– who are– what the _hell_ , dude!” he manages to eek out, trying to ignore his own reaction to hearing his name said in such a deep register.   
  
A tiny frown crosses the man’s face and he tilts his head to the side curiously, the move eerily reminiscent of…   
  
“Cas?” No. Freaking. _Way._ But, when the man drops his gaze and smiles, almost shy…   
  
Dean doesn’t know _how_ , but he suddenly knows in his bones that the man lying naked in his bed is Castiel. His _dragon_. Who thought Dean was his mate. And is now a– a _person_. What even is his _life_.   
  
The floor comes up hard under Dean’s ass as his legs finally get the message from his brain to give up on being vertical. Sprawled on the ground and looking up now at his bed, he watches as Castiel sits up and gives him a look of mild concern. For the first time Dean gets a good look at Castiel and the blue tattoo on his body, narrow lines drawn from shoulder to shoulder meeting at a point right in the center of his chest and trailing down the midline of his abdomen, like a “Y”. If Dean had a shred of doubt, the tattoo erases it. He thinks of how much Castiel liked to have that stripe on his belly petted and the thought _does_ things to Dean, especially considering what that belly looks like _right now,_ but…  
  
“Okay. _What,_ ” he says at last, after it becomes clear that Castiel is not going to offer up anything himself, “in the _fuck_ is going on?” If his voice comes out a little higher than usual, well, who could possibly blame him right now?  
  
Castiel tips his head to the side again, the gesture still freakishly adorable even on a grown-ass man (which Dean is _not_ going to sit and analyze right now because seriously _what the fuck_ ), and says, carefully, “What do you mean?”  
  
Dean lets out an involuntary – and maybe a little hysterical – laugh. “What do _you_ mean, what do I mean? You– you’re a _person_!” he accuses.  
  
Castiel looks down at himself, pressing a hand into his chest as though he himself hadn’t noticed and needed to confirm this particular detail. He looks back up at Dean, eyes narrowed. “Yes…?”  
  
“When I left this morning you were a dragon!” he says, desperately trying to grab onto a thread of sanity.   
  
Castiel brightens. “Yes,” he agrees, pleased, as though Dean has understood and this has somehow settled the matter.   
  
Dean stares at him, mouth hanging open, before spluttering, “Do you– you wanna explain to me _what happened_?”   
  
“You accepted the bite.”   
  
“‘The bite,’ Jesus, Cas, what–?”  
  
“You accepted the bite,” Castiel repeats, voice heavy and solemn. “You accepted _me_.” His eyes, already so blue, seem to flash in the murky light of the bedroom. He pushes himself to the edge of the bed and slides off of it, walking over to Dean and crouching in front of him. Dean feels a flush climb up his neck to his cheeks, and keeps his eyes steadfastly on Castiel’s face.   
  
“Shit, man, are you gonna put on some clothes, or–”  
  
With another curious head tilt, Castiel brings his leg up and wraps his arms around it. He glances down at himself before he leans his chin on his knee. “Does nudity disturb you?” he asks, seeming to be genuinely confused to learn that such a thing might be true. 

Dean closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Nope, no, um. Not normally, no.”   
  
“But _my_ nudity disturbs you?”  
  
“Well, give me a fucking minute here, okay!” Dean blurts out, thoroughly freaked. “You could be wearing a goddamn three-piece suit, I’m still trying to wrap my head around you even _being_ here like– like this,” he finishes lamely, pushing his fingers into his hair and pulling on it. He’s _pretty_ sure Gabe didn’t dose his coffee this afternoon, but he honestly wouldn’t put it past his boss to slip a psychedelic into Dean’s drink as “payback” for him having to get all the stupid croissants ready to go by himself this morning.

“Dean,” Castiel says, a note of tension creeping into his voice now, “do you not… want me here?” He seems to shrink into himself, hugging his leg tighter. A blush rises on his cheeks and Dean suddenly thinks he looks more than tense. Castiel looks… he _sounds_ … wounded.

Dean takes a deep breath. And another, for good measure. Lets it out nice and slow. Sam would be proud of him. He raises his head and scrubs his hands down his face, then glances over at Castiel, whose blue, blue eyes ask Dean a hundred questions. Dean takes one more breath, slowly through his nose, really taking a moment to _look_ at Castiel. Who is, impossibly, sitting before him on his bedroom floor, a full-grown man instead of a dragon the size of a large-ish python.   
  
And what a sight he is. Dean can’t seem to stop himself from looking at Castiel’s long fingers, his broad shoulders, the beautifully sculpted tendons of his feet. His eyes flick up to Castiel’s face and he takes in his huge blue eyes and the sharp, clean line of his jaw. Dean finds, as his eyes rove over Castiel’s naked form, that he can’t help staring at the glorious curve of his biceps.   
  
“Uh,” Dean starts, wetting his lower lip and definitely not missing the way Castiel’s eyes drop down to Dean’s mouth. “no, no, that’s not. Um. Shit.” He shakes his head, trying to form a complete coherent thought. “Sorry, Cas, I’m just– I’m just surprised. Okay? I didn’t know, uh, that you could, y’know.” He gestures at all of Castiel with his hand, waving it in front of him from head to toe. “Do this.”  
  
Castiel draws his eyes up Dean’s face, earnestly looking. His gaze pierces something inside of Dean that hasn’t seen the light in a _very_ long time.   
  
“Neither did I,” he says in his deep rumbling voice. Dean blinks. What?  
  
“What?” he asks.

“I didn’t know, either.” Castiel looks down at the floor. “One moment I was asleep on the pillow and the next I was…” He waves a hand over himself before looking back up at Dean. “Like this.”   
  
Dean frowns. How could Cas not know he was capable of– of changing like this?   
  
Something of his confusion must show on his face. Castiel raises his shoulders in the stiff semblance of a shrug. “I think…” Castiel frowns and looks at the floor, and the crease between his brows is instantly familiar. Dean has a sudden and ridiculous impulse to kiss Castiel right between the eyes. Which he squashes, because it is wildly inappropriate. _Wildly_.  
  
Castiel looks back up at Dean, and he gets the distinct impression that the other man is struggling to maintain eye contact. “Dean,” he begins haltingly, “I think that, though the essence of me remains unchanged, I had to take this form.”  
  
“Form?” Dean echoes, feeling obtuse.

A slow blink, and then, “Your form. A form like yours,” Castiel clarifies. “If– if my mate is human, then I must… also be human.”  
  
Dean is quiet, absorbing this hypothetical with every ounce of calm he can muster. He clears his throat and then asks, kinda terrified, “Mate?” He knows, he _knows_ what Sam said last night (was it really only _last night_?) about the mating bites, but this is multiple steps above Dean’s paygrade.  
  
“Yes. We are bound, you and I.”   
  
Dean looks up sharply. Castiel continues, “You called out to me, and I came when you called.”  
  
“I didn’t– I didn’t _call_ you, okay,” Dean stammers, overwhelmed. “I just happened to have a– a _mug_ that caught your eye–”  
  
Castiel gives Dean a hard stare. “Perhaps I was enamored by the… mugs, and the food. And your keys,” he adds with a small smile. “But your heart called to mine.” His gaze softens, a hopeful glint sparkling there. “And when you took my feather, when you allowed the bite, I assumed–”  
  
“You assumed what?” Dean prompts when Castiel doesn’t continue, heart abruptly, inexplicably in his throat.   
  
“That you felt it, too. No matter what form I take, what face I wear… I will always be yours. As… you will always be mine.”  
  
Dean sits dumbfounded by this announcement, unable to speak. When he finally manages to kickstart his brain into thinking again, he tries to look at the last month from this new perspective. And he finds that he can’t… argue with any of what Castiel has said. In the first place, as a person who has gone his entire life actively avoiding interactions with animals – wild or otherwise, apparently _magical_ or otherwise – Dean still has no real, rational explanation for why he let Castiel into his house.   
  
He definitely does not have a rational explanation for why he let Castiel into his heart, either.  
  
But he… has.   
  
Huh.  
  
“Dean, say something,” Castiel pleads, his voice suddenly small.  
  
Looking up, focusing on Castiel’s face, Dean meets his eyes and lets go of another long breath. He rises to the top of his knees and scoots closer to Castiel, almost touching. He looks down at his own shoulder, feels the throb of the bite under his bandages, then turns and tentatively reaches a hand out to Castiel, murmuring, “Can I…?”

“Please,” and now Castiel’s voice is barely above a breath. This close, in the dark of the bedroom, Dean can just see a sheen of tears trembling on his lashes, and it breaks something open inside of him, a final barrier crumbling away in a sudden, sublime sweep of emotion. An explosion of butterflies take wing in his belly. His pulse is beating hard in his throat.

“Hey, hey, I got you, Cas,” Dean says, low and soft. He takes Castiel’s hands, unexpectedly cold, and holds them between his own for a moment, kisses the very tips of his fingers. “I got you,” he repeats, and pulls Castiel’s hands up around his own neck, holding them there before sliding his hands down Castiel’s forearms and resting them lightly in the crook of his elbows. They lean into each other until their foreheads touch, eyes locked, breaths mingling in the scant space between them. He watches a tear slide down Castiel’s face and raises his hand to catch it, pushes his fingers into Castiel’s hair. Closes his eyes and just _exists_ for an indeterminate moment, thinking how very strange this all is, but how right and wonderful, too.  
  
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, voice shaking, the impulse sudden and unexpected and intense.   
  
“I wish you would,” Castiel tells him, equally affected.  
  
Something in Dean relaxes and he pushes the last little bit into Castiel’s space. He closes his eyes and touches his mouth to Castiel’s lightly, still almost asking for permission, still not sure if any of this is real. For the briefest moment, they stay like that, lips barely touching, an electric sort of tension building between them–  
  
And then Castiel is burying his hands in Dean’s hair and tugging, a soft broken whine caught in his throat. And he’s tilting Dean’s head to the side to better slot their mouths together, and his tongue is snaking out to taste the seam of Dean’s lips, and then he’s pulling away to drop his nose to Dean’s jaw and pushing Dean’s chin up and _inhaling_ , and he makes a sound that is possibly the most obscene noise Dean’s ever heard in his _life_ , and that’s it for Dean, that’s it–   
  
Dean leans up on his knees and pushes Castiel none-too-gently, but Castiel pushes back, unbalancing them both so they hit the floor with Castiel sprawled on top of Dean. A laugh bursts out of the other man, and Dean leans up to capture some of it with another kiss before mouthing along Castiel’s jaw and rubbing his nose in the soft spot just under Castiel’s ear. Breath short and heart pounding, Dean closes his eyes and just lets himself feel Castiel’s pulse thudding ferociously against his cheek.   
  
“Cas. Castiel.” Dean barely breathes his name, soft and hopeful, like a prayer.   
  
He feels Castiel’s hands push his hair back from his face. One hand strokes down Dean’s neck in a long swipe, dancing lightly across his shoulder before coming to rest on his bicep, just under the bite. Dean hums happily.   
  
“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, leaning his chin on the crown of Dean’s head, “I’m right here.” He drops a kiss to Dean’s hair and says, “I’ll always be right here.”


	7. The Second-Best Thirty-Five Bucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey,” Dean says after what feels like a lifetime has gone by. Castiel hums quietly but doesn’t move, and Dean’s grateful he’s not looking Castiel in the eye right now. “You remember when you said, uh. That my, um, heart– called, it–” he coughs, nervous and embarrassed, his voice kinda shaky. He takes a steadying breath and tries again: “You said my, uh, heart called to yours?” he gets out in a rush. He watches the clouds of his breath dissipate into the snowy air.
> 
> “Yes, of course,” Castiel answers. He reaches across Dean’s lap to take his hand and twine their fingers together, warm through their gloves.
> 
> “What did you mean?” Dean asks, feeling brave. “How did you know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrite everybody, here we are at the end of the ride!
> 
> Thanks so much to all of you who followed along and left such lovely comments, to those who followed along silently, for all the kudos, for your support. This story was such a pleasure to write and I'm just delighted that it's resonated with so many folks. 
> 
> For those who expressed an interest, there _will_ be a timestamp eventually, but as it stands right now I might just have to turn it into a full-blown sequel because it turns out I can't write porn without plot. ^.^;;; In either case, more of this version of Dean and Cas is forthcoming - sometime. As soon as I can get it out of my head and to my alpha and betas, anyway.
> 
> One more big hug and thank you to [conversationalpurgatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/conversationalpurgatory) for all of her help developing this story and cheerleading it through the finish line. She's wonderful! ::squeeze::
> 
> Feel free to come play on my tumblr if you're so inclined. I pretty much post 100% deancas nonsense. 
> 
> Thanks again everyone! ^__^

“You comin’, Cas?” Dean calls from the back door. “I’m lettin’ in all the cold air, man!”  
  
“So close the door,” Castiel shouts reasonably from somewhere in the house. Dean keeps the door propped open because he’s a spoiled brat, and stamps his feet to bring some circulation to his poor, freezing toes. When he looks into his backyard, his breath puffs out into the air, tiny white clouds mingling with slowly falling snow. A dusting covers everything, a clean white blanket over the world, or at least over his little corner of it. He smiles, quietly content.  
  
Castiel comes into the kitchen wrapping a scarf – Dean’s scarf, actually, now that he’s looking, the little _hoarder_ – around his neck and then mashing a hat Eileen had knitted for him down on his head. The long tan trench coat he’d picked out at their local thrift shop hangs off his frame, giving him a slightly starved look, and as much as Dean hates the thing (he’d argued that it was going to be too cold for such a light jacket soon, anyway, but Castiel had been insistent), he knows that Castiel likes it, and that’s all that matters. It turns out Castiel happens to have an eye for the strange, the weird, the discarded. Like the coat, and the mug, and Dean.  
  
He can feel his smile growing, a big dopey grin, as he steps into the kitchen to help straighten Castiel out. He pulls the hat down a little more over Castiel’s ears and snugs the scarf, pulls on the lapels of his coat until it settles more firmly on his shoulders. Castiel’s face is a study in irritation as he grumbles, “We’re only going for a walk, it isn’t dinner at your brother’s.”  
  
“Yeah, well, it’s snowing, and according to everything Sam could dig up, you should be hibernating right now, so.” Dean lifts his eyes to Castiel’s and gives one final tug on the scarf, satisfied. “Gotta make sure you stay warm, at least.”  
  
Castiel rolls his eyes, the intervening weeks between when he first appeared in Dean’s bed and now rife with opportunities for him to pick up on some of the _worst_ of Dean’s social habits. Dean knows he’s fussing, a little – but it isn’t every day your sort-of-pet-dragon turns into your smokin’ hot boyfriend, so he thinks he’s allowed to fuss, especially when they still don’t know so many things about dragons in general, and Castiel specifically, or his transformation and whether or not it’s– well, permanent.  
  
Knowing that one day he’s going to have to give this significantly more thought, Dean gives into an impulse and leans in to kiss Castiel on the cheek. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says, lacing his gloved hand with Castiel’s. “Let’s go.” He tugs until Castiel follows, and together they walk out into the frigid afternoon.  
  
Breaths clouding, light snow falling, it feels almost too still to be real outside. Castiel walks beside Dean inside their little bubble of chilly quiet, a tiny, secret smile on his face, eyes on the sidewalk ahead of him. Dean can’t quite stop staring at Castiel’s face, still can’t quite believe what his eyes are telling him and that Castiel is really _here,_ like this. And just as he’s demonstrated from the start, wants to _be with Dean_. Warmth suffuses Dean’s chest, climbs his neck, puts a flush on his cheeks that has nothing to do with the chill in the air.  
  
They walk until they come to the little park with the pond, and make their way in silent agreement to the bench under the aspen tree, its paper-white branches bare of leaves but limned in a dusting of snow. Sitting and looking out at the pond, Dean lets go of Castiel’s hand to wrap an arm around him, and Castiel lays his head on Dean’s shoulder. Cuddled and cozy, they take in the falling snow and the gentle ripples of the pond, its edges crusted with a thin film of ice, enjoying each other, just breathing.  
  
“Hey,” Dean says after what feels like a lifetime has gone by. Castiel hums quietly but doesn’t move, and Dean’s grateful he’s not looking Castiel in the eye right now. “You remember when you said, uh. That my, um, heart– called, it–” he coughs, nervous and embarrassed, his voice kinda shaky. He takes a steadying breath and tries again: “You said my, uh, heart called to yours?” he gets out in a rush. He watches the clouds of his breath dissipate into the snowy air.  
  
“Yes, of course,” Castiel answers. He reaches across Dean’s lap to take his hand and twine their fingers together, warm through their gloves.  
  
“What did you mean?” Dean asks, feeling brave. “How did you know?”  
  
Castiel takes a long moment to respond. While he’s thinking, Dean stews and watches as Castiel twists their entwined fingers to and fro. Dean tries not to fidget or feel worried about what Castiel has to say, but there’s still this niggling doubt in his mind, that this is all somehow a dream or a hallucination, or if not, that Castiel will realize one day that Dean isn’t… isn’t worth anyone’s trouble, and will disappear just as unexpectedly as he had come into Dean’s life.  
  
“I meant,” Castiel begins slowly, lifting his head from Dean’s shoulder and freezing him to the spot with his intense gaze, “exactly what I said. Even before I saw the nest, even before I saw _you_ , I could feel something pulling me into your orbit. Sure as the sun would rise in the morning, sure as there are stars in the sky, I was being pulled. As for how I knew, well.” He smiles and reaches up to touch Dean’s cheek with his gloved hand before sliding down and back to cup his neck. “The first time I laid eyes on you, I just… I could feel the truth of it. It just _was_. I was meant to be with you,” Castiel says, his rumbling baritone gentle, “and I think you knew it right away, too.”  
  
Dean thinks back to that first morning he had found Castiel in his kitchen, about how when he’d finally gotten a look at Castiel’s face he couldn’t look away. He remembers how his heart had clenched in his chest and thinks it must have recognized something he hadn’t even known he was missing.  
  
All told, it does feel like falling in love with Castiel was inevitable.  
  
“Yeah,” he agrees, leaning his forehead against Castiel’s. “I think you’re right.” Dean inhales the cold wintry air and lets the breath go slowly before he leans back and reaches into his jacket pocket. A sudden nervousness washes over him as he grasps the object inside and he catches his lower lip in his teeth. Castiel looks at Dean curiously, and Dean can feel the tips of his ears growing hot.  
  
With a cough, Dean tries on a smile. “Well, I. Um. I made this,” he says, feeling his face flushing hotly now, too. “For you,” he explains needlessly, pulling the blue-and-green bracelet from his pocket and shoving it at Castiel before he completely loses his nerve. Christ, he feels like a fucking _teenager_. Next thing he knows he’ll be doodling their names on every available writing surface.  
  
Castiel looks down at the intricately knotted bracelet and reaches for it slowly. He cups it in his gloved hands in stunned silence and Dean can feel his insides squirm.  
  
“Dean,” Castiel finally says, soft and surprised. He raises his eyes to Dean’s face and Dean sees that he’s blushing, too, the pinkness in Castiel’s cheeks somehow making him even more handsome. When he doesn’t say anything more, Dean fidgets on the bench and looks away.  
  
“I get it if you don’t wanna wear it, it’s okay– I just thought, I mean. You gave me something of yours, I just wanted to– I mean, obviously I don’t have like, feathers or anything–”  
  
Castiel interrupts Dean’s stammering with a firm press of his lips. He pulls back and his smile is radiant. “Of course I’ll wear it,” he tells him. Dean feels his whole body go slack and he lets out a self-deprecating laugh. He rubs at the back of his neck, feeling sheepish. “Dunno why that made me so nervous,” he chuckles.  
  
“I don’t, either,” Castiel says gently. He looks down at the bracelet and runs his fingers over the interwoven pattern. “It’s beautiful, Dean. Will you help me put it on?”  
  
Pulling his gloves off, Dean accepts the bracelet back, then reaches for Castiel’s left hand and pulls it into his lap, palm up. He loops the bracelet around Castiel’s wrist and ties it off with steady fingers. Impulsively, he pulls Castiel’s wrist to his mouth and presses a kiss to the tender skin there, eyes on the other man’s face. “You’re somethin’ else, Cas,” he murmurs against Castiel’s skin. “I’m real glad I–,” he swallows, adds thickly, “I’m glad I asked you to stay.”  
  
Castiel laughs and tucks his head onto Dean’s shoulder. “I don’t think it could have possibly happened any other way,” he observes quietly.  
  
Silent, they hold on to each other and watch as the snow continues to drift lazily down from the sky.

  
**~~~**

Dean shuffles around in the kitchen, getting himself together for a long day of holiday baking and shopping. Why he’d agreed for them to meet up with Sam and Eileen – at a craft market, _again,_ Jesus, Sam – after what would certainly be one of the busiest days of the year at the bakery is just beyond him, especially at this hour and _especially_ pre-caffeine.  
  
He’s stirring milk into his coffee and reaching for a gingerbread muffin leftover from yesterday when he feels Castiel’s arms slide around his waist from behind.  
  
“Shit, Cas,” he says, jumping a little and turning in Castiel’s arms, “we need to get you a bell.” Dean hears himself and shakes his head. He’d never thought of it when Castiel was still in his dragon form. “What are you doing up, sweetheart?” he murmurs as Castiel buries his face in Dean’s neck.  
  
“Couldn’t sleep,” Castiel grumbles against his skin. His arms squeeze Dean even tighter and Dean can feel him taking in a deep breath.  
  
Dean strokes a long line down Castiel’s back, wondering if he ever misses his feathery wings, and drops a kiss to Castiel’s hair. “Everything okay?” he asks gently, twisting quite impressively to set his muffin behind him on the counter next to his coffee without breaking Castiel’s hold on him.  
  
“The bed was too cold,” Castiel complains gruffly. When he doesn’t continue Dean puts his hands on Castiel’s shoulders and pushes him back, letting his gaze sweep over the other man’s face, his sleep-tousled hair, his broad chest…  
  
“Hey,” Dean says, looking down with narrowed eyes. “Isn’t that _my_ Creedence shirt?” he accuses.  
  
Castiel manages a small smile even though Dean can see he’s tired and clearly needs to go right back to bed. “Yes,” he says quietly. He looks up at Dean through his lashes. “It smells like you,” he tells him, and damn, Dean can feel his stomach swoop right down to his feet like he’s flipping on a roller coaster.  
  
“They all do,” Castiel continues, and his cheeks are suddenly flushed bright red. Dean licks his lips and watches Castiel’s eyes follow the motion. He leans down to kiss Castiel, but stops just short of his mouth, a light bulb suddenly coming on in his brain.  
  
Pulling back, he demands, amused, “Wait. Wait a second, is that – is that where all my shirts went?” He’d noticed his t-shirt drawer wasn’t quite as full but he’d honestly chalked it up to the ever-growing pile of laundry in his – their – bedroom.  
  
Castiel glances down with a shy smile, which is all the answer Dean needs. Who even knows where Castiel is squirreling them away, but Dean isn’t surprised one bit – just because Castiel was in a human body now didn’t mean he’d stopped collecting little things that belonged to Dean and putting them in his mug, still sitting on the nightstand, a permanent reminder of how things had started between them.  
  
“You dork,” Dean says fondly, tipping Castiel’s face up and kissing him, slow and sweet, leaning back against the counter. He pulls back and Castiel whines, annoyed, but Dean drops a quick kiss on his nose and smiles. “C’mon, let’s get you back to bed,” he says. “You try to get some more sleep, and I’ll be back to pick you up around four-thirty, okay?” Castiel grumbles but complies, and together they get him settled under a mound of blankets before Dean goes back to the kitchen to finish his coffee.  
  
Driving to work in the dark of the very early morning, Dean can’t stop smiling like a total idiot. The thought of Castiel walking around the house in Dean’s clothes all day has a warmth blooming inside him that he simply cannot contain, so he doesn’t even try.  
  
Ugh, Gabe’s going to tease him _relentlessly_ today, he can just tell.

  
**~~~**

  
Glittering strings of holiday lights are draped between booths at the holiday market, illuminating stalls filled with sparkling trinkets and beautiful handmade wares. Warm smells of cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and chocolate fill the air, enough to make the mouth water and the mind wander to cozy firelit cuddle-fests. Snippets of soft music float in between the sound of hundreds of people crammed into the tiny walkways between booths, and all Dean can think is that it’s a good thing his brother is so freakishly tall.  
  
“Sammy!” he shouts over the crowd, spotting Sam a few booths down with Eileen. “Sam!” Sam looks up from Eileen, sees Dean, and waves. Dean indicates for them to stay put and then turns to Castiel, who is beside him bundled up to the nines against the cold. Hat pulled low and scarf wrapped high, the tip of his nose is all the more visible for its redness, and Dean leans in and kisses Castiel there, earning him a pleased laugh.  
  
“Good thing Sam’s a gigantor,” Dean says as he laces his fingers with Castiel’s and tugs him along through the throngs of shoppers. They wind their way over to Sam and Eileen, shoulders brushing, sometimes bodies pressed tight together as they squeeze between the oncoming crowd of people.  
  
Finally reaching his brother, they all exchange hugs in greeting before Sam turns his attention back to the booth he and Eileen had been inspecting. Dean looks, too, and sees it’s a little food stall offering delicately iced ginger cookies, hot chocolate, and apple cider.  
  
“Hell yeah, Sammy,” Dean says, approving. “Startin’ this shopping trip off the right way.”  
  
Eileen looks up at Sam and rolls her eyes. “You were right,” she says as she signs. “Best way to get him on board is to feed him.” Her eyes slide over to Dean and she gives him a teasing smile.  
  
“Hey!” Dean says in mock-offense. “I also take bribes in the form of alcohol and special-edition blu-rays,” he says primly, watching as Sam signs to Eileen. Dean’s picked up a word here and there in ASL, but since he only gets to see these two lovebirds every two weeks or so, he obviously hasn’t had as much practice as Sam.  
  
“Don’t forget,” Castiel chimes in, trying a sign or two himself (and much more gracefully than Dean, if he’s being honest), “Dean can also be convinced if he’s feeling particularly aroused–”  
  
“And, that’s enough of that,” Dean says loudly, turning Castiel to face the stall and starting on an order. Behind them, Eileen starts cackling with laughter. Dean can feel his face flush but he smiles, loving the way Castiel still has not figured out what is and is not appropriate to say in front of _Dean’s baby brother and his girlfriend,_ the nerd.  
  
After they’ve all gotten something warm to drink and Castiel has a cookie to nibble on, they start a leisurely walk through the market, cold air nipping at exposed skin. There’s a lightness to Dean’s step as he and Castiel trail behind Sam and Eileen. A feeling of total peace washes over him as he thinks about how, in this moment, his life feels so very… complete.  
  
They’ve gone through about half of the warren of stalls at the market, mostly sticking together, drifting into and out of each other’s orbits as something or other catches the eye and draws one of their group away momentarily. Turning a corner, Dean looks over to ask Castiel if he’s okay to stay for a little while longer, but the other man is nowhere to be seen.

“Cas?” Dean calls, turning to look behind him. He can’t believe he didn’t notice Castiel peeling away from the group.  
  
Fortunately, he sees Castiel stopped several booths behind, completely absorbed. Dean yells over to Sam that they’ll catch up in a bit and pushes his way through the crowd back to Castiel’s side.  
  
He’s stopped in front of a potter’s booth and has his bare hands wrapped around a tall, cylindrical mug glazed in white. The very rim is a rich blue color, reminiscent of Castiel’s tattoo. Of his feathers. Dean immediately sees why the mug caught his eye. For a moment, Dean just watches Castiel’s face, looking for any signs of regret there. But all Dean can see is quiet contemplation and a wistfulness that takes his breath away.  
  
“Hey, Cas,” he says softly, not wanting to startle him. He gently bumps their shoulders together and sees Castiel smile. When he finally looks up at Dean, there is a light in his eyes that positively screams childlike delight.  
  
“Dean, can I– will you–?” he starts, nodding to the mug he’s holding.  
  
With a soft laugh, Dean carefully lifts the mug out of Castiel’s hands. “You got it, sweetheart,” he says, and an expression of true joy comes over Castiel’s face. Dean doesn’t even blink at the price tag. He just hands the mug over to the young woman behind the table in the booth, happy that he could make Castiel happy. That he _does_ make Castiel happy.  
  
As they clasp hands and wander back in the direction Dean last saw Sam and Eileen, Dean can’t help but notice the expression that lingers on Castiel’s lips and around his eyes. Leaning over, Dean lets his lips brush against the shell of Castiel’s ear as he murmurs, “ _Second best_ thirty-five bucks I’ve ever spent.”  
  
Castiel’s peals of laughter ring out into the winter air, warming Dean to his toes. He feels like he might actually be the luckiest person on the planet. Especially if he can draw that kind of sound out of the most beautiful creature he’s ever met, human or otherwise.  
  
Late that night, after unloading their goodies from the market, Dean is setting up his coffee for the next morning when Castiel comes into the kitchen carrying his hoard mug. He comes over to Dean’s side and drops a kiss to his shoulder before pushing the mug across the counter and up against the backsplash, right next to the ever-present sugar bowl. Then he reaches for the new white-and-blue mug and carefully arranges it so that it touches the green-and-blue mug, handles pointing away from one another.  
  
They leave them there, a happy reminder, and head off to bed, hand in hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream with me about the currently airing season of SPN on [tumblr!](aishitara.tumblr.com) I'm definitely not like... losing my mind right now or anything. ^.^;


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